Walking in a Straight Line
by msgenevieve447
Summary: It's one of the oldest stories in the book. Two old friends have a few too many drinks, two old friends share a kiss. Happens all the time, right? But what happens when only one of them actually remembers it? (Captain Swan AU, with a side order of Snowing, mention of Emma/Walsh)
1. Chapter 1

_Set me on fire in the evening  
>Everything will be fine<em>  
><em>Waking up strong in the morning<em>  
><em>Walking in a straight line<em>  
><em>Lately I'm a desperate believer<em>  
><em>But walking in a straight line - "Straight Line", Silverchair<em>

* * *

><p>He has time to think that the bright light in the bathroom makes her eyes look even more green, then she's grabbing two handfuls of his sweatshirt and jerking him towards her. When her mouth covers his, he stops thinking about anything apart from the fact that Emma Swan is kissing him so fiercely his legs almost go out from under him.<p>

_Bloody hell._

Her mouth is warm and slick, her tongue curling around his as though she's studied handbooks on how best to drive him out of his mind. His pulse is hammering almost painfully in his head and his cock, the blood roaring through his veins, fuelled by alcohol and months (fuck, who is he trying to fool, it's been years) of gallantly pining for this woman. He brings his hands up, vaguely meaning to ease her body away from his, but all that happens is that one hand buries itself in her hair, the other planting itself firmly on her back.

"God, what am I doing?" Her throaty whisper is breathed against his jaw, and unfortunately has the effect of being doused with a bucket of iced water.

What is she doing, indeed?

Emma Swan is not only his long-time college friend and flatmate, she's also currently enmeshed in a serious relationship with another man. She has no business kissing the living daylights out of _him_ in their apartment's bathroom after a raucous evening of shots and trying to outdo each other with their choice of 'bad' music.

In his defence, he does try to put a halt to proceedings. His hand still buried in her hair, he pulls back, trying to catch her gaze with his. Her eyes are fever-bright, and he knows she will regret this in the morning, even if he won't. "I don't know, darling, what _are_ you doing?"

"Shut up." She kisses him again, shifting closer, nudging him backwards until his arse hits the edge of the bathroom vanity. He'd come in here to clean his teeth before staggering off to bed, hoping to put some distance between himself and Emma's seeming determination to match him in the flirtation stakes. She'd followed him into the bathroom, his phone in her hand, muttering something about how she hardly has any pictures of them together, then everything had gone a bit mad. He knows she'd had a fight with Walsh this morning, but this reaction seems more than a little over the top, even for her.

He's trying very hard (poor choice of word, perhaps) to stop himself from taking advantage of the situation, but he feels as though he's fighting a losing battle. "Fancy a cup of tea?"

She bites at his bottom lip, and he feels a jolt of raw lust tug at his groin. "I hate you sometimes."

He tries to be offended, but it's proving difficult when her hands are exploring his arse. "What?"

"Strutting around like God's freaking gift with that face and that voice and being all sweet and funny and God damned charming." Her voice is muffled against his neck, and when he feels the scrape of her teeth on his skin, he can't swallow back the low groan that rumbles up from his chest. "I mean, what the hell am I supposed to do with all of that?"

He's beyond confused now, and the copious amount of alcohol they've consumed certainly isn't helping. Deciding to inject a note of humour into the conversation (they've always communicated best that way), he bumps his nose against hers, more than a little overwhelmed by the scent and feel and everything of her. "Are you saying that you _like _me, Swan?"

His attempt at levity backfires. She leans into him, her breasts pressing softly against his chest, one hand leaving his arse to grope for something on the vanity beside him. "I'm saying I _really _hate seeing women at our breakfast table the morning after you've fucked them." Her voice is thick with emotion and vodka, never a good combination, but he still can't help the little thrill of excitement that goes through him. "_Hate_ it. You and me, though, we're a bad idea, 'cause we're _friends_ and I have Walsh and, _fuck,_ my timing just sucks so much."

It suddenly dawns on him (perhaps he can be forgiven for being slow on the uptake, given the fact that his reflexes have been muffled by lust and vodka) that she has thought about him - _them_ - in a manner not quite befitting their 'just good friends' status_. _Before he can speak (he still feels like he's two steps behind, she's always been the only one who can reduce him to a blithering heap of silence), she has his phone in her hand again, and her lips are a whisper away from his. "I've messed things up now, I'm sorry."

Then she's kissing him again, her mouth both soft and urgent, letting him taste the desire shimmering beneath the surface, making his whole body clench with an answering hunger that shocks him with its intensity.

He's not about to demur a second time.

He kisses her mouth, then her throat, tasting the furiously fluttering pulse just below her jaw. Her right hand slides underneath his sweatshirt to stroke his back, and hunger slams through him, urging him to go further, faster, pull her into him and let her feel exactly what she's doing to him. When she sighs softly, pressing her hips against his with clear intent, he blindly finds her mouth with his once again, kissing her until they're both panting and clutching at each other, holding each other up against the bloody bathroom vanity.

The sudden flash of his camera phone going off brings him back to his senses, and just in the nick of time, it seems. It's as though the fight suddenly goes out of her, and she sags into his arms, his phone dangling dangerously from her fingertips.

"Okay, Swan," he tells her as he liberates his phone and wraps one arm around her back to keep her from stumbling. Seriously, what the hell is going on here? She's always been able to drink him under the table, so this early capitulation to the power of vodka is most unlike her. "I think it's time you went to bed," he says with an effort, doing his best to steady his shaking voice. "We've both got work tomorrow, remember?"

She mumbles something that sounds like agreement, and he tells himself that he's relieved. His heart is still pounding, his breath still coming short. For all the times he's imagined kissing Emma Swan, his imagination has never quite managed to encompass the glorious reality. Feeling as though he's just sprinted around the block several times, he slides his phone onto the bathroom vanity, then decides not to bother forcing his flatmate to brush her teeth or wash her face. Best to get two closed bedroom doors between them before he does something incredibly foolish like listening to his body rather than his head.

A moment later, he's managed to wrangle her into her bedroom, profoundly grateful that they'd both dressed for an elegant evening of shots and bad music at home. What she's wearing resembles pyjamas enough that he has no hesitation in simply pulling back her covers (Duckling sheets? Really? Far less hardcore than he'd expected for a tough bail bonds woman, his glorious blonde Valkyrie) and gently coaxing her into bed. He takes another moment to put a glass of water beside her bed (he has the feeling that tomorrow morning is going to be most unpleasant for her), then flicks off her bedside lamp, feeling uncomfortably like a voyeur in his own home. "Goodnight, Swan."

He reaches the door before she speaks, and when she does, it's all he can do is turn on his heel and retrace his steps. "Killian?"

"Yes?"

Her voice is small and rough, and it makes his heart ache. "Sorry."

"Don't fret, love." He fumbles for the doorknob, forcing himself to take that final step out into the hallway. "I'll see you in the morning. I'll wager we'll both need a strong coffee."

There's no answer, and again he tells himself that he's relieved.

He returns to the bathroom, his head all over the place as he perfunctorily cleans his teeth, splashing his face with cold water for good measure. He briefly considers a cold shower (God, those kisses) but it's November and he's not in the mood for hypothermia. A few minutes later, he's in his own bedroom, the door firmly shut against temptation, lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling.

_Well_, he thinks wearily, torn between confusion and elation. _This is quite the interesting development._

He's wanted Emma Swan from the moment they met on campus, introduced by his friend David, who was dating one of _her _friends, Mary Margaret. He's been ridiculously, silently in love with her for almost as long. He's a man who believes in going after what he wants, but he also likes to think of himself as a man of honour. Not once in the history of their friendship have they both been single and in the same city at the same time, and he had long resigned himself to the fact that close friends was all they'll ever be.

Mind you, being Emma Swan's close friend is quite something, and six months ago, when David had told him that he and Mary Margaret had two spare rooms in their converted loft apartment and that Emma was taking the other one, he'd jumped at the chance to torture himself on a daily basis.

He had been so sure he could handle it. Emma was hot and heavy with Walsh, after all (they'd been dating for almost a year) and would surely just continue to roll her eyes at his outrageous flirting. They'd set the rules for their friendship a long time ago, and he certainly wouldn't be in danger of embarrassing himself by confessing his love for her over scrambled eggs one morning.

Even now, his powers of self-deception astound him, because it turned out that he was in danger of doing just that every bloody morning.

And now he's lying here in his bedroom, with Emma sleeping down the corridor, and he thinks he can still taste her kiss despite the liberal application of his favourite spearmint toothpaste. What the hell had she been thinking? They've gotten to that level of plastered together many times before, but it had never ended with them in a heated clinch in the bloody bathroom. Rolling over, he punches his pillow and wills himself to fall asleep. The faster he falls asleep, the faster morning will come, and the quicker he can get through Emma telling him that she's sorry and it was all a mistake and would never happen again.

Best laid plans and all that, because despite the fact he suspects the level of vodka in his body would be enough to fell a stone donkey, it takes a very long time for him to fall asleep. Perhaps he should stop replaying kissing Emma Swan on a loop in his head, but if tonight is going to be a one-time thing (and he fears it will be just that), then surely he's allowed to torture himself a little while longer.

He punches his pillow again. Perhaps he should have had that cold shower after all.

* * *

><p><em>This is<em>, Emma thinks as she lies very still and wishes for death to claim her, _definitely one of the worst hangovers she's ever had._ God, what the hell had they been drinking last night? She remembers wine with their dinner, then David and Mary Margaret had gone out for coffee and cake (date night, no other flatmates invited, thanks very much), then she and Killian had set up camp in the living room with the stereo and -

_Ugh._

Vodka.

She squints at the old-fashioned alarm clock on her bedside table (a gift from Mary Margaret, that girl is hopelessly retro) but the hands and numbers made no sense. Her room is still vaguely dark, so it takes her a moment to notice the glass of water beside the clock. _I don't remember doing that,_ she muses, but she isn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak. Struggling up into a half-sitting position, she drinks the whole glass in one go, gulping it down as though it's a miracle cure for the pounding in her head.

It makes her feel a little better (at least her throat doesn't hurt any more) but it sure doesn't make her feel like leaping out of bed and facing the day. Instead, she flops back onto her bed, trying to piece together the night before. Fuck, what the hell had she been thinking, getting trashed on a Thursday night_? Stupid Jones and his vodka shots and his cringe worthy 1980's CD collection_, she thinks with a scowl at her ceiling. He should know by now that she can't resist his 'I can find a worse song than you can' game.

God, her head is pounding, but she's pretty sure she has a 10am appointment at work, so there's no way to call in sick without messing a heap of people around. She should _not _have been drinking last night, not after she took those antihistamines before dinner for her allergies, but Walsh had been a dick about cancelling their date at the last moment (not for the first time) and she'd wanted to forget that being with him was starting to be harder than being single.

She closes her eyes again, hoping to ease the dull throbbing in her head. At least her allergies seem to have subsided. _How the hell does someone get hay fever in November?_ She grumbles to herself for a few more moments, then decides to get her shit together and accept the inevitable. She's not dying, and she needs to go to work today.

Sighing, she slowly emerges from beneath the bed covers (it seems she went to bed in her gym clothes last night) and sits on the edge of the mattress for a few minutes. When she's relatively sure that she's not going to throw up, she gets to her feet, and slowly gathers up her bathrobe and clean underwear. What doesn't kill her might only make her stronger, but a hot shower and hot coffee will go a long way towards making her feel human again.

It's still early, but the shower stall is misted with the remnants of someone else's visit, and she feels a mild sense of surprise push through her muddled head. David and Mary Margaret always use the en suite attached to their bedroom (there's two of them, it only made sense that they have the biggest bedroom) so that means that their resident lawyer, who is usually the last one to stagger out of his bedroom on any given morning, is already up and showered.

_I bet he doesn't even have a hangover, that smooth bastard. _It would be just like him to drink her under the table and then turn up as fresh as a freaking daisy the next morning, she thinks darkly. Stripping off her clothes, she steps into the shower and makes the water as hot as she can bear it, and hopes that he's at least had the good manners to make coffee.

He has.

She smells the mouth-watering scent of his favourite espresso blend as soon as she opens the bathroom door, and she pads slowly towards the kitchen, tightening the belt of her bathrobe as she walks. The almost-scalding water on the back of her neck has almost managed to make her feel halfway decent, but she needs a caffeine hit like she needs air. Her hair is still wrapped in its usual towel turban, but they've long stopped standing on ceremony in this house. "I hope you left some of that coffee for _me_, Jones," she announces as she steps into the kitchen. "It's _your _fault I feel this bad, you know."

There's a clatter of coffee mugs as he starts, turning to look at her with those impossibly blue eyes. He's already half-dressed for the office, his customary black waistcoat over a white business shirt, his tie and suit jacket draped over the back of one of the kitchen table chairs. "Uh, morning, Swan."

She narrows her gaze at him. Just as she suspected, he's showing no sign of their night of vodka and loud singing that's still scratching at her brain stem. "You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep."

He gives her an oddly shy smile which, to her despair, sends a tiny flurry of butterflies through the pit of her stomach. _Shit, not this again. _She really thought she'd managed to put all that behind her over the last few months, but apparently not. She's not the first person to stupidly fall in love with one of her best friends (who only has eyes for other women, plural) and she won't be the last but sometimes it feels like there are burrs under her skin when he smiles at her.

And yet she's the sucker who agreed to live in the same apartment with him.

He slides a mug of coffee in front of her as she drops into the nearest wooden chair, then adds two aspirin and a large glass of water. "_Thank you,"_ she breathes as she reaches for them with faintly unsteady hands, but he says nothing in return. She peers up at him, but he seems in something of a rush, which is weird, considering they're both at least an hour ahead of their usual workday schedule. "At least you could have the decency to look a _little _hung over, you know," she grumbles at him as she finally reaches for her coffee. "I feel like I cracked open my skull and poured that damned vodka of yours straight into my brain."

Leaning against the counter beside their battered espresso machine, he gives her a long, searching look, his gaze sweeping over her face. "Not my fault you can't keep up, Swan," he finally says before burying his nose in his own coffee mug.

There's something in his tone that she can't quite decipher, something unfamiliar and wary, but the coffee is hot and sweet and tastes like heaven (she can literally feel it spiking her blood) and she chalks it up to too much vodka and not enough sleep. It seems he's only human, after all. "Where are the others?"

"Still in bed, I assume." He refills both their mugs without her having to say a word, and she flashes him a smile of thanks. He blinks at her, his lips parting as though if to speak, then he seems to give himself a shake. "They rolled in just after midnight, so I doubt we'll see them before their designated alarm time."

"Midnight?" She's impressed. "God, what time did _I_ go to bed last night?" She looks at the refrigerator, wondering if she can stomach some toast, then decides against it. "The last thing I remember is beating you at remembering every word to that stupid Bon Jovi song."

Killian's coffee mug pauses halfway to his mouth. Once again, he stares at her with those ridiculously blue eyes, and she suddenly has to fight the urge to squirm in her chair. It's like he's literally trying to peek inside her head and, with her hangover, there's definitely not enough room in there for anything else. "What?" she finally asks, hearing the defensive note in her own voice, and he gives her a shrug that looks way too casual to actually _be_ casual. "I didn't do anything embarrassing, did I?"

"Not at all, love." He turns his back to her, rinsing his coffee mug in the sink with unnecessary vigour, and she has to strain to hear him over the sound of the running water. "Well, I'm off."

She shouldn't feel disappointed (they don't always catch the train into the city together, after all) but she is. "I can be ready in thirty minutes tops, I swear," she says teasingly, but he only shakes his head, his smile strangely tight as he glances at her over his shoulder.

"Actually, I've got a lot on at work this morning, so I thought I'd take advantage of the early start."

It's not a real brush-off by any means, so why does she feel like it is? "Sure, okay. Thanks for the coffee," she tells him as she pulls the towel from her head, running her hands through the damp strands of her hair. _Definitely a plait today_, she thinks, then belatedly notices that the sound of running water has stopped and Killian is snatching up his tie and jacket from the chair beside her as though he's running late for work rather than an hour ahead of schedule. "See you tonight?"

He pauses, his gaze finally meeting hers with an intensity that has the heat unexpectedly rising in her cheeks. "Not seeing Walsh?"

The warmth in her face increases at the oddly accusing tone in his voice, and her heart sinks. _Fuck. _It's way too early to be dealing with this, with him and his face and the fact that despite filling her life and her bed with Walsh, she still has this _stupid _schoolgirl crush on someone who has made it _quite_ clear that she isn't his type. It'd be hard to miss the parade of brunettes through his life over the years, after all. "Yeah, maybe." She runs a hand through her damp hair, wondering how the hell she can be almost thirty and still so messed up in the emotional attachment department. "I guess I should let him make it up to me for cancelling our date last night."

Again, his smile is tight and doesn't reach his eyes, his gaze following the path her hand takes through her tangled hair. "Ah." Draping his tie around his neck, he picks up his wallet and keys from the kitchen counter, then gives her a little nod. "I'll most likely be going out for a drink after work myself."

She doesn't want to analyse the hollow feeling his words invoke. It's Friday night, so she guesses there will be yet another willowy brunette at their breakfast table tomorrow morning, being placated with gourmet scrambled eggs before being gently eased out of his life. "Have fun, then," she says with her best airy wave, and his brow furrows.

"You know me, love." He heads for the front door, tossing his parting words over his shoulder. "I always do."

Emma listens to the front door slam behind him, then frowns at her empty coffee mug. That would have to have been the most awkward conversation she's ever had with Killian Jones, and they've had quite a few. Maybe he's not as immune to the perils of vodka as he'd have her believe.

Shaking her head, she dumps her coffee cup in the sink without rinsing it (Mary Margaret won't be happy with her, but she doesn't have the energy to care), and shuffles back to her room to get dressed. She'll go to work and forget about Walsh and Killian and the unhappy fact that while her hay fever might have vanished, she seems to have acquired a pink rash around her lips and down one side of her neck. _Nothing a bit of make-up won't fix_, she decides, then stops dead in her tracks to stare at the debris littering the living room.

_Oops_.

There are empty pizza boxes and CD cases strewn everywhere, and the surface of the coffee table looks suspiciously sticky with alcoholic residue, not to mention an empty bottle of vodka and two shot glasses.

Wait, they ordered pizza? When did that happen?

Mentally vowing to swear off mixing antihistamines and shots, she takes a deep breath and begins to clean up, silently cursing Killian with each new CD case she almost steps on. Typical of him to contribute to this mess and then take off, then realises she's being a little unfair. Out of the two of them, he's always the one who cleans up and organises and makes sure there is milk and butter in the fridge and the bills are paid on time. He must really be busy at work to have left her in the lurch like this, she thinks, then she hears the sound of the master bedroom's door opening and closing.

"Wow." Mary Margaret comes up behind her, resting her chin on Emma's shoulder, her short dark hair looking unfairly perfect for so early in the morning. She surveys the damage, then looks at Emma with obvious amusement. "Exactly what did the two of you get up to last night while we were out?"

"You know, I'm not exactly sure." Emma tosses yet another CD case belonging to one of Killian's terrible 80's compilations onto the coffee table, smiling with grim satisfaction when it lands in a particularly sticky patch. "But if my headache is anything to go by, I had a _great _time."

* * *

><p>Killian stares out the window of the train as it approaches Central, his phone burning a hole in his coat pocket. He hasn't allowed himself to check the camera roll this morning, hoping that perhaps if he pretends a particular photograph doesn't exist, he can pretend that last night didn't happen. In the interests of self-preservation and all that nonsense, given that Emma apparently doesn't remember a bloody thing.<p>

She doesn't remember kissing him.

Neither does she remember confessing that she fancies him (well, she hadn't used those exact words, but it had been pretty bleeding obvious) and tonight, she will be going on a date with her boyfriend which will no doubt end with said boyfriend in her bed.

He closes his eyes, furious with himself for the hot twist of jealousy that cuts through his chest (and with _her _for kissing him in the first place, he's man enough to admit it), then tugs the phone from his pocket. Five seconds later, he's looking at a perfectly framed image that makes his gut clench.

In the photograph, he's kissing Emma as though he's a condemned prisoner and she's his last meal. More importantly, she's kissing him exactly the same way, with apparently no objection to the fact that his hands are all over her back and buried in her hair. Just looking at it brings _everything_ all back with a rush, the taste of her mouth, the feel of her pressed against him, her soft sigh as he'd kissed her neck. Even now, he knows he'd be able to pick her perfume out of a line-up of thousands.

He thinks of how she'd looked this morning, all damp skin and wet hair and soft lips, smiling at him as though she had no clue she'd turned his world upside down the night before, and briefly allows himself to imagine what might have happened if he'd hauled her out of that kitchen chair and kissed her until she'd been soft and pliant in his arms, just as she had been last night.

He looks at the photo again, immediately regretting his decision when he shifts awkwardly in his seat. If he wasn't dealing with the prospect of an ill-timed erection while sitting on public transport, he'd be impressed by Emma's photography skills, because that drunken shot had definitely captured the moment as far as he remembers it.

Sadly, it seems he's the only one who does.

(He should delete the photograph.

He knows he won't.)

He grabs his satchel and prepares to get to his feet as his stop approaches, strangely thankful for the prospect of the nightmare pile of work that awaits him at the office. It should keep his brain occupied at least, if not the more easily distracted parts of his body. He can blag on all he likes about being a man of honour but, as of last night, the playing field has irrevocably changed. Now he knows that this thing between them is far from one-sided. Now he has hope, and he can't help thinking that a little hope can be a very dangerous thing.

The big question is, he muses as he slips his phone back into his pocket and prepares to face another day in corporate purgatory, what the hell does he do _now_?


	2. Chapter 2

Despite her early start that morning, thanks to stopping to clean the mess she and Killian had made the night before, Emma arrives at her office without a single second to spare. With her headache lingering, she'd decided to drive to the office rather than catch the train, but she'd forgotten that the Bug needed gas, and then once she was at the garage, she'd noticed that her back tires needed air. Time had ticked past without her noticing, and suddenly she was in danger of being late for work.

Not for the first time that morning, she curses Killian Jones and his bottle of vodka.

She used the last sliver of time to pick up the biggest takeout coffee she could find. The coffee she'd chugged at home had barely touched the sides (as her third foster mother used to say), and it was definitely time to top up her caffeine levels.

"Morning, Emma. Glad you decided to join us."

"Morning." Pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head, she gives her boss a feeble smile as she drops her purse and coat onto her desk, and the other woman's eyes widen.

"Oh, dear." Far from appearing annoyed, Kathryn just looks amused. "Looks like someone didn't get enough beauty sleep last night."

Despite knowing her boss' sense of humour all too well, Emma still finds herself lifting one hand to her hair, smoothing it back and wondering if it's obvious that she barely spent five minutes on her make-up this morning. "Few drinks at home last night after taking my allergy medication. Rookie mistake."

Kathryn's wide mouth quirks. "In that case, you'll be pleased to hear that your first job should be a breeze."

Emma takes the proffered file, flicking through it as she drops into her swivel chair. "Felix Piper." She studies the attached mug shot of the gaunt-faced teenager, who seems to be trying to stare her down through the camera lens. "What's his deal?"

"This time? Shoplifting." Kathryn's tone is flat, as if the kid's petty crimes bored her. "Seems to think of himself as a modern day Fagen, that one. Has quite a few little followers."

Emma scrunches her nose. "He runs a pickpocketing gang? How Dickensian." Looking at Felix's mugshot, she has to admit, he's got the right look for it.

"His court date was yesterday. To no one's surprise, he didn't show."

Emma flips the file shut and takes another long sip of her coffee. "Who organised bail?"

"His poor long-suffering mother." Kathryn picks a non-existent speck of lint off the shoulder of her black jacket. "Put her beloved vintage Cadillac up as collateral."

"Well, then." Her ass has barely touched her chair, but that's how this job works. "Let me go see if I can make sure she gets to keep it."

Luckily, she doesn't have to travel very far. Felix Piper is currently working as a cashier (oh, the irony) in a electronics store at the Mall only ten minutes drive from her office. Emma rolls her eyes when she sees his choice of workplace. _Smooth, kid, real smooth._ Electronics stores deal in small, expensive merchandise, the shelves and glass cabinets filled with stock that's easily lifted and concealed and repackaged. If you get a clueless manager, then you can have thousands of dollars' worth of merchandise walking right out the door every month, and she's not talking about customer theft.

In person, Felix Piper is a lot taller and thinner than his personal stats might have implied. His dark blonde hair is scraped back from a face that is all cheekbones and teeth, and Emma can only assume that he has quite the compelling personality, because outwardly, that is not a face anyone would trust. Emma browses at the back of the store for a few moments, feigning interest in their range of mp3 player headphones, and watches her target as he interacts with the various customers. It doesn't take long for her to realise that (a) half of the customers are actually Felix's 'associates' and (b) she isn't going to waste her time flipping her hair and flirting with this one.

She waits until she's the only other person at the front of the store (the other employee has ducked into the back room), then approaches the front counter. "Hi."

Felix's eyes are far paler and colder than his mugshot had indicated, and Emma makes a mental note to ask Kathryn to redefine her use of the word 'breeze'. "What can I do for you, ma'am?"

She's never heard the word 'ma'am' infused with quite so much disdain, and knows she has to move quickly. This kid is no fool, and she has the feeling he'll see right through any line she might try to use. Casually strolling to the end of the long counter until she's half-blocking any escape route, she smiles at him. "I'm here to give you a second chance to keep your date with the court."

The kid's face goes blank, his eyes becoming even more cold. "Is that so?"

"Come on, Felix." Emma tugs the cuffs from her belt, letting them dangle casually from her fingertips. "You don't want your mom to lose her Caddy, do you?"

"That pile of junk." He's smiling now, as if she's just told him the punchline to the funniest joke in the world. "She should thank me for getting it out of her drive."

Emma gives him the smile that Killian often tells her reminds him of a shark just before it goes in for the kill (which is hardly flattering, but she gets his drift) and takes a step closer. "You know the drill, kid. Easy way or hard way, I'm good with either."

"Bite me, bitch." He says the words so calmly that it's almost a shock when he vaults over the counter and sprints for the front door of the store

"Son of a _bitch_." Emma's out the front door and into the mall only a few seconds behind him, very glad she'd chosen her boots with the lowest heel today. Seems like her hangover had a silver lining, after all.

Felix Piper is fast, but they're not in the street now. They're in a crowded shopping mall, and Emma effortlessly tracks him through the sea of people, following the path of offended patrons he's shoved out of the way. It soon becomes clear that he's not as familiar with the layout of the mall as she is (she remembers that he's only worked at that store for a few weeks), and when she catches up with him, it's in a dead end created by a row of public bathroom doors and a post office outlet. She's puffing as she draws up a few feet in front of him, but so is he, the little shit. "Come on, kid. Let's just get this over with."

His lip curls in a snarl that would have made Billy Idol proud. "Like I said before, _bite me, bitch."_

The wild swing at her head she was expecting, but the kick aimed at her knee is an interesting addition. In the end, however, their tussle ends in exactly the way she'd anticipated. Felix Piper is on the ground, his cheek squished against the hard tiled floor, her knee in the middle of his back as she cuffs him without too much due care and attention. "Now seems like a good time to remind you that I own both a taser and a registered firearm," she tells him cheerfully as she drags him to his feet. "I also have a headache, so I really wouldn't push my luck if I were you."

She's got to hand it to him, he's still mouthing off as she escorts him back through the mall. "You _wish_ you were me."

The kid's ego apparently rivals that of a certain flatmate (damn it, why does she keep thinking of him?) and she can't help grinning. "Yeah, well, seems to me that only one of us will be spending some quality time in a jail cell today, and it sure as shit won't be me, kid."

It's a fifteen minute drive to the police station, and in that time her reluctant passenger manages to insult her car, her hairstyle, the size of her breasts and her leather jacket. She's dealt with way too many lowlifes to count over the years, but she can't remember the last time she was so glad to wash her hands of a bail skip as she is to hand Felix Piper over to the local law enforcement. "See you in court, Felix," she calls out softly out as he's led away, and from the look on his face, he'd give anything to be able to flip her the bird. Pity about those cuffs he's wearing.

Another fifteen minutes, and she's back in the office, feeling energised and headache free. As she swings through the front door of Midas Bonds, Kathryn sticks her head out of her office. "All good?"

"Just like you said." Shrugging out of her leather jacket, Emma cricks her neck to one side, then the other, stretching muscles already warmed by her pursuit of Felix. "It was a breeze."

She's just finishing up the paperwork (another nice check for her vacation fund, she thinks with a pleased smile) when her phone buzzes with an incoming text. She knows without looking that it will be Walsh. It's just before lunchtime of the day after an argument, and if history is any indication, his message will be an invitation to catch up for a quick bite to eat and bury the hatchet. Sighing, Emma ignores her phone until the paperwork is done, then she swipes one fingertip across the phone screen with a sense of inevitability.

_Hi, sweetheart. So sorry again about last night. You know work is crazy at the moment. Let me make it up to you with a picnic lunch? I can pick you up in 15._

Emma frowns. She know she needs to put a stop to this endless cycle of let-down and apology, but the rumbling of her stomach has other ideas. Her lack of breakfast has left her feeling ravenous, and if she has to swallow yet another apology while she's inhaling what she knows from experience will be an amazing lunch, then so be it.

She types a quick reply, telling him that she'll be waiting outside her office at noon, then sends the message on its way before she can change her mind or think too hard about why she's feeling so unenthusiastic about seeing Walsh today. It's not just because he cancelled on her last night (again), she's not that precious, it's just -

She stares unseeing at the phone cradled in her palm, the familiar feel and shape of it tugging at something in her memory. _Oh_ _God, did she drunk dial someone last night? _Holding her breath, she quickly skims through her recent calls, heaving a literal sigh of relief when she finds no incriminating evidence that she made a fool of herself last night. Besides, Killian had said that she hadn't done anything embarrassing, so there's that.

_And _she's right back to thinking about Killian Jones again.

He'd been acting strangely this morning, all tight-lipped and no nonsense, not a single flirtatious word in sight. She should be glad, because anything that makes it easier for her to keep the lid on her feelings for him is a good idea, but their conversation in the kitchen has left a bad taste in her mouth. Maybe she shouldn't go out with Walsh tonight (she knows he's going to ask to take her to dinner, that's just how he works), maybe she should head home and smooth things over with her flatmate.

Her flatmate who told her that he'd be going out drinking after he's finished at the office and basically for her not to wait up.

That flatmate.

Emma rubs her eyes, vaguely aware that she's putting her new smudge-proof mascara to the test. Walsh, she reminds herself with dull determination. She's meeting Walsh for lunch in fifteen minutes, and maybe she should make sure she's fit to be seen in public (chasing lowlifes might be a great cardio workout, but she has the feeling that her rushed make up job is hanging by a thread right now) rather than thinking about another man, especially one she's got no business thinking about.

Picking up her purse, Emma makes for the employee washroom with the same feeling of inevitability with which she'd read Walsh's text message. Maybe one day, she'll be able to get her head and her heart in synch, but apparently today isn't going to be that day.

* * *

><p>His phone beeps just after three o'clock, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't hoping it was Emma.<p>

Alas, no.

It's from another of his three flatmates, and even in a text message Mary Margaret sounds like the chirpy, upbeat school teacher that she is.

_Just three of us for dinner tonight. I know it's your turn to cook but do you want me to pick up something quick from the market on the way home? It's Friday night, after all!_

His heart sinks. He knows full well that David isn't working a late shift tonight, so that leaves only one person who will be missing from their apartment this evening. It appears Walsh has indeed managed to convince Emma to go to dinner, he thinks sourly, and quickly dashes off a reply.

_Thanks for the offer, love, but I'll be catching up with some friends after I've finished here. Sorry to leave you in the lurch. You'll just have to put up with that Nolan git all by yourself tonight._

She sends him back a tongue-poking emoticon as a reply, and he thinks – not for the first time – that she truly is the walking embodiment of the perfect elementary school teacher. David certainly landed on his feet there, he muses, and is relieved when his secretary appears at his door before his thoughts can follow the inevitable path back to Emma Swan.

"Mr Jones?"

"Mr Jones is my father, love." He looks at the beaming redhead hovering in his doorway. "Killian, remember?"

"Sorry." She ducks her head in an embarrassed nod, and he reminds himself yet again that her last employer was an archaic firm where the support staff weren't allowed to be on a first name basis with their legal colleagues. "It's hard to get used to, I still-"

Knowing this could go on for quite a while, he cuts her off as gently as possible. "Did you need me for something, Ariel?" (Seriously, some parents really should have the naming rights of their children taken away from them.)

"Ashley Boyd and Sean Herman are here for you."

New clients. Excellent. Just the thing to stop him from obsessively checking that he hasn't accidentally deleted that photo of Emma kissing the hell out of him. "Remind me?"

She slips quickly to his side, handing him a newly created client folder. "Unmarried couple with a three month old child, estranged from the paternal grandfather." She makes a patently sad face, and he wonders anew if Family Law is truly the right area for her. "Sean's father is applying for visitation rights to the child."

"Ah." He smooths one hand through his hair (it never does to give the first impression of someone who's literally been tearing out his hair), then straightens his tie. "Show them into the conference room and I'll be with them shortly."

Ariel practically curtseys before leaving his office, and he's still shaking his head as he gathers up the client folder and a supply of his business card. She's definitely an improvement on his last secretary, but he can't help wondering how long this one will last. She seems far too soft-hearted to deal with the kind of work he does on a daily basis. Only yesterday he found her teary-eyed after proofreading a client's affidavit. Only time will tell, he supposes. He's been guilty of underestimating people before, after all.

His meeting with the new clients goes well. Ashley may only be nineteen but seems to have quite the level head on her shoulders. Her partner Sean defers to her through the interview, despite seeming quite a forceful personality in his own right, and Killian can't help but marvel at how often he sees two such personalities drawn to each other. Of course, this thought leads him straight back to Emma Swan, and he wants to clip himself on the back of the head.

His clients depart with assurances that he will set the wheels in motion to protect their parental rights, and he's pleased to find that it's close to five o'clock. He hands Ariel the client folder, tells her that she can attend to it on Monday and to have herself a good weekend. Her smile seems to stretch from ear to ear, and she darts a coy glance at the framed photograph of herself and the man he assumes is her significant other. "Thank you." She locks the client folder away in her filing cabinet, then starts to gather up her belongings. "Eric is taking me out to dinner tonight, somewhere special he said, and I really wanted to look my best, so it would be wonderful if I could-"

He finds himself scratching the back of his neck, a nervous tic he's tried very hard to expunge over the years, but to no avail. "Ariel." She looks at him with those giant eyes, and he tilts his head towards the way out. "Go home."

Five minutes later, he is alone in his office, enjoying the blissful silence from the empty desk outside his door as he flicks through the contacts on his phone for a likely drinking partner.

Jefferson? Hilarious, but far too intense.

Archie? Thank you, no. He's not in the mood to be psychoanalysed this evening.

Will? Perhaps not, he'd like to avoid being arrested for public intoxication tonight.

He scrolls through to the end of the alphabet, grinning when he finds exactly the right name. He taps out a quick text, sending it winging its way to Victor Whale (again, what are these parents thinking?) three city blocks away at a rival firm. His friend's reply is swift and succinct and uses both the words 'plastered' and 'shag', and Killian feels a sudden pang of longing for a quiet dinner at home with Mary Margaret and David. Perhaps two nights on the booze isn't the best idea he's ever had, but he'll be damned if he spends his evening kicking around the apartment like a stray puppy while Emma is out being wined and dined by Walsh.

_Walsh._

It seems to be the era of ridiculous names, he thinks uncharitably as he loosens his tie and tosses it into his satchel. The man has done nothing to earn his disdain (apart from the obvious, of course) but Killian has never been able to warm to him. He likes to think of himself as quite the judge of character, and there's something about the other man's manner that has always unsettled him. Too eager to please, too keen to impress, his smile never quite reaching those dark eyes of his.

Of course, not everyone shares his opinion. Emma for one, obviously, and it pains him to think of how highly David and Mary Margaret seem to regard him. They want Emma to be happy, as does he, but he can't believe that she's found her perfect match in a too-eager-to-please owner of a furniture store filled with the kind of goods hipsters around the world find irresistible. If he never sees another bloody mason jar in their kitchen, it will be too soon.

Shoving Emma from his thoughts with a concerted effort, he makes his way to the bar where he's arranged to meet Victor. His friend is already halfway through a pint when he arrives, and gives him a cheery wave from his chosen booth. "Wow. Someone's looking a little rough."

"Really?" Killian makes a show of rubbing the heel of his palm along his jaw. "I thought I was looking particularly dashing today."

A few moments later, there's a beer in front of him and Victor has secured his second of the evening." "How's work?"

Killian grins. "Outstanding. You?"

"Never better."

They lift their glasses in a toast, their customary six-word ritual over, and get down to the business of discussing everything but the work they've just left behind. He and Victor fell in the habit long ago of _not_ discussing work unless they needed to pick each other's brains, and it's always worked out quite well. Once they've finished dissecting the rugby and the latest scandal in local politics (yet another married man caught with his pants down, how trite), Victor signals the waitress and orders more buffalo wings than a man who once practised medicine should order. "Seeing anyone?"

Killian should have been expecting the question, and yet it still takes him by surprise. He shakes his head, ignoring the pang that tightens his chest. "No one special."

"What happened to last month's one?" Victor admires the back view of a passing waitress, momentarily distracted. "What was her name again?"

Killian takes a sip of his beer, thinking that perhaps he's made an error of judgement in choosing Victor as a drinking cohort this evening. He should have remembered the other man's liking for endlessly discussing the fairer sex and the best ways in which to woo them. Normally this is fine, but tonight, he's doing his best not to think of women. Well, he amends silently, one woman in particular. "Jane, and she wanted to go on a camping weekend in the great outdoors."

"Hot sex in a two-person tent not your thing?"

He sips at his beer again, ignoring the protesting twinge in his stomach. Beer and buffalo wings, God help him. He definitely needs to do some kind of detox at some point. Perhaps next week. "The hot sex was never the problem," he tells the other man, dropping his voice an octave. "It was the conversation in between the sex that never got past first base."

His friend laughs, his eyes lighting up as he shakes his head. "You are one picky bastard, you know that?" Before he can protest, Victor is gesturing towards the waitress he's been eyeing ever since Killian arrived. "Will you look at that?"

Killian looks. He has to admit, the woman in question is certainly easy on the eyes. Ludicrously long legs, dark hair streaked with red and a face that could stop traffic. She smiles at the table she's serving, a flash of scarlet lips and white teeth, and Killian knows he's officially lost Victor's attention. He knows his friend will dedicate the rest of their evening to getting that waitress' number, and to be perfectly honest, he'd be happier at home watching a DVD on his laptop while hiding out in his room.

It's a sad state of affairs for a Friday evening, but there it is.

"Mate, I might leave you to it."

Victor looks disappointed, but only briefly, his gaze already drifting back towards his target. "Your loss, my friend." The other man gives him a bright wink. "I'm sure she'll have a friend who'd be only too happy to take your mind off the hiking woman."

Killian shakes his head. Normally, he'd be all for it, but not tonight. Perhaps it's because he's still feeling the lingering effects of last night's events (the vodka shots, of course) but the thought of making small talk with a strange woman, no matter how attractive, is less than appealing. "Perhaps next time." He finishes off his beer with a flourish, then claps his friend on the shoulder. "Good luck, mate."

Victor's smile is beyond smug. "It's in the bag, trust me." He holds up their bar tab. "She's already comped me the buffalo wings."

The train trip home is uneventful, just the usual drunken idiots and snogging couples, and the apartment is suspiciously quiet when he opens the front door. After dumping his satchel and jacket into his bedroom, he makes his way to the living room to find Mary Margaret and David curled up together on their customary couch, watching some action movie on low volume. "Evening."

David shoots him a grin over the top of Mary Margaret's head. "You're home early."

He drops onto the other couch, the one where he and Emma usually camp out when the four of them are home at the same time. "Victor was intent on pulling a particularly luscious waitress, so I decided to bow out gracefully."

The happy couple disentangle themselves, then Mary Margaret leans forward to pick up the bottle of red sitting on the coffee table in front of them. "Want some wine?"

He manages not to make a face. "Thank you, no." He gives him a quick smile. "I think I'll give my liver time to recover from the beating it took last night."

Mary Margaret's heart-shaped face grows stern. "Speaking of which, it wasn't very nice of you to leave Emma to clean up your mess by herself this morning."

He blinks. Mess? Had Emma remembered? Bloody hell, had she already told their friends what happened last night? "Mess?"

David hides a smile as Mary Margaret gestures to the room around them. "Pizza boxes and CD cases wall to wall, my friend."

_Damn it. _He'd been so intent on escaping the apartment this morning that he had completely forgotten about the debris they'd left in the living room. "My apologies, love."

"Don't say sorry to_me_," she tells him tartly. "Emma's the one who cleaned it up before she left for work this morning."

_There's an opening if ever he heard one,_ he thinks. "Is she home?"

"Nope." David turns up the volume on the television just in time to fully appreciate the sound of a CGI helicopter into the side of a building. "Dinner with Walsh."

Mary Margaret curls into her boyfriend's side once again, looking as though she can barely keep her eyes open. "She's staying at his place tonight, too, so you'll have time to practise that apology."

Something dark and sour tightens in the pit of his stomach. _Perfect._

"Well, I might call it a night." They both look at him with surprise, and he can't say he blames them. He's usually the last of them to call it a night, but tonight, as the saying goes, he thinks he would rather be where people are not.

"You want to come to brunch with us in the morning?" Mary Margaret, with her years of reading petulant children's moods, seems intent on keeping him from wallowing in solitude into the weekend, it seems. "We're going to try that new place on Fifth Street."

He smiles at her, wondering what she'd say if he told her the truth behind his current lack of enthusiasm for socialising. She means well, he knows, but there are some things that overpriced poached eggs and slices of imported melon just can't fix. Besides, having walked past the establishment in question, he suspects it might be the kind of place to serve its kale-and-beet-and-other-mysterious-things juice in buggering mason jars. "I might take a raincheck on that, love."

Finally, he manages to escape to his bedroom (David looks disappointed that he'll have to watch the action movie sequel by himself) and briefly considers dragging out his laptop and seeing if his brother is awake. Since the advent of Skype, he and Liam barely exchange more than one or two emails a week these days, and even then most of those tend to be bawdy jokes. He dismisses the notion, because Skype is the very worst medium for anyone who doesn't want to invite questions of 'why the long face?' from one's older brother. He'll drop him a line tomorrow, see how things are happening on his side of the globe.

Right now, all Killian wants to do is fall into bed, fall asleep, and not waste a single thought on the fact that Emma is more than likely naked in another man's bed while he's here alone, dithering over his bloody laptop.

He manages to fall into bed but sadly, that's all he manages to achieve.

These are the kind of times that could make a man turn to strong drink, he thinks darkly as he tosses and turns, his usually perfectly comfortable bed feeling as though it's filled with rocks. Perhaps it's just as well he's decided to give his liver the night off.

Sleep is a very long time in coming, and every waking moment between becoming horizontal and oblivion is filled with the thought of Emma Swan and the fact that she doesn't even remember the kiss that has completely upended his life.

As Friday nights go, he may have had a worse one, but right now, he certainly can't recall it.


	3. Chapter 3

**_If you've been reading this story, you will know that our heroine is presently in a relationship with Walsh. This chapter contains mention of Emma/Walsh. Just so you know. (It also has a lot of Killian so, you know. *g*)_**

* * *

><p>Pausing in her search for her favourite black pumps, which for some reason known only to themselves appear to have vanished from her bedroom, she tosses her friend a quick smile. "What are you guys doing tonight?"<p>

By 'you guys', of course, she means Mary Margaret and David. She already knows what (or maybe that should be _who) _their fourth housemate is doing tonight. The thought is vaguely depressing, and she's suddenly irritated with herself, because she has _no_ business caring about what or _who_ Killian might be doing this evening.

And maybe if she tells herself that enough times, she thinks, she might actually believe it.

Mary Margaret's voice breaks into her increasingly muddled internal monologue. "Oh, something very exciting." Her friend smiles as she perches on the edge of Emma's bed, her legs stretched out in front of her as she admires the result of trying on Emma's newest pair of boots. "These are great," she murmurs, then glances back at Emma. "We're having a quiet dinner at home, just the two of us, no-one under twenty-eight in sight. Bliss."

At that moment, Emma spies her missing shoes. "_There_ you are." After a brief moment spent retrieving them (they'd been kicked under the dresser, quite possibly in annoyance, quite possibly last Wednesday night after she'd had to run down that charmer who'd decided to sprint the length of Main Street rather than have to face the reality of paying child support), she drops down onto the bed beside the other woman to put them on. "Tough week at work?"

Mary Margaret's smile widens, although Emma can see the weariness in her eyes. "As tough as spending the last five days straight with thirty ten year-olds go, I guess."

Emma snorts inelegantly as she buckles the strap on her right shoe. She's never met anyone who adores her work as much as Mary Margaret Blanchard does. "You know you love it."

"I do." Her friend flops backwards onto the bed, stretching her arms above her head. "But that doesn't mean 3:01pm on a Friday afternoon isn't my favourite time of the week." As Emma rises to her feet, Mary Margaret gives her an approving nod, her gaze sweeping from the black pumps upwards to take in the black skirt and blue blouse. "So, where's Walsh taking you tonight?"

"Just that little Italian place in his neighbourhood." Emma checks her ears to make sure she's remembered to put on both earrings before blowing a stray curl out of her face. "I didn't really feel like going anywhere fancy tonight." Thanks to Walsh's picnic lunch (her post-hangover appetite had well and truly reared its head by the time he'd picked her up), she doubts she'll be able to do justice to the menu, but she's not about to pass on one of her favourite restaurants. "Did I tell you that he brought a picnic lunch to work today and whisked me off to the park to eat it?"

The other woman's expression goes soft and misty-eyed, and Emma half-regrets mentioning it. Sometimes she forgets what a hopeless romantic her friend is. "That's so sweet."

"I guess." Emma tugs one last wayward curl into place with one hand as she picks up her purse with the other, then catches Mary Margaret's eye. "What?"

"You know, Emma, it's okay to be romantic sometimes."

Emma stares at her friend, ignoring the tiny (and familiar) prickle of anxiety that rises in her chest. "I can be romantic."

Mary Margaret's smile is kind, but it still has 'who do you think you're kidding?' written all over it. "If you say so."

Emma makes her way through the apartment, her friend trailing in her wake. "Besides, Walsh has that department covered enough for both of us."

Behind her, she hears Mary Margaret scoff. "See, this is what I mean."

She can't have this conversation, Emma thinks. Not again, and definitely not tonight, when she's already feeling distracted and off-kilter for reasons she _really_ doesn't want to examine. "I gotta go." She picks up the overnight bag she'd hastily packed and dumped onto the couch, hoping she'd remembered to toss in a clean pair of jeans but lacking in the energy to double check. "I should be home around lunch time tomorrow, I guess."

"Emma-" The other woman's hand is warm on her forearm, giving it an apologetic squeeze. "I didn't mean-"

"It's all good." Emma smiles at her, knowing she has to nip this subject in the bud before either of them can say something they'll regret. "But you know, not everyone's lucky enough to meet Prince Charming in their first week of college." Mary Margaret blushes, and Emma's irritation dissolves. Honestly, if those two were any more infatuated with each other, she'd have to contact the Guinness Book of Records.

"I just want you to be happy."

Hefting her overnight bag onto her shoulder, Emma gives her a friend a one-armed hug. "I _am_ happy." _Mostly, _she adds silently, then fishes her car keys out of her purse. "You and David have a good night, okay?"

Mary Margaret looks unconvinced, but Emma knows it will pass. As soon as she's out the door, her best friend will be thinking about David arriving home and dinner and the prospect of having the apartment to themselves for the evening and lots of other things that Emma doesn't really want know. She just hopes Mary Margaret remembers to take off _her_ boots first. "Drive carefully."

Emma gives her friend her best long-suffering look as the door starts to close between them. "Yes, _Mom._"

Walsh is waiting outside his apartment building when she pulls into the last spare visitor's parking space, and he's quick to dash around to the driver's side and open her door. He greets her with a hug and a kiss on the cheek, then puts both hands on her shoulders, his dark gaze sweeping over her from head to toe. "You look great."

"Thanks." She grins, uncomfortably aware that her pulse doesn't leap quite as high as it used to at the admiration warming his eyes. _It still leaps, though_, she thinks, _so that's good, right? _ "You don't look so bad yourself."

He's dressed in a dark suit with a white shirt, no tie, and she's suddenly glad she decided to go with the black pumps and skirt instead of her first impulse of jeans and boots. "I'll just get your bag."

"Oh, it's okay, I can get it-"

Her words fall into thin air, because he's already grabbing her overnight bag from the passenger seat. Telling herself that it's sweet that he waits downstairs for her (he worries about her finding a parking space after dark) and insists on carrying her bags (his mother raised him to be a gentleman) and wonders when it started annoying her rather than charming her. Sometimes, she thinks he forgets that she tackles felons for a living.

Smiling, he does his usual 'after you' gesture, and Emma makes her way towards the front entrance to his building, suddenly feeling strangely detached from her surroundings. He asks about her day and she tells him about Felix Piper (leaving out any details that might compromise dear old Felix's privacy), then the short surveillance stint she did after leaving him at lunch time. As always, he listens attentively, and it's only when they reach his apartment that he starts to tell her about his own day.

She's a terrible person, obviously, because as soon as he starts telling her about the married buyer who wanted three identical dining suites, all in different wood finishes, to put in the three different houses in which he's set up his three mistresses, her mind starts to wonder. She finds herself watching him as he speaks, not really hearing the words he's saying, trying desperately to sort out what the hell is going on in her head.

Most days, she's pretty sure that she loves him.

Those are the good days.

Other days, she's afraid she still doesn't know how to really let herself love _anyone_.

They've been dating for almost eighteen months now, and it's been pretty good. It's definitely been better than anything else she's ever had (she isn't going to think of Neal, not tonight, her life is complicated enough at the moment) and there have definitely been times when she's thought _Maybe, maybe he's the one, maybe this is it. _Thinking is a long way from actually doing, though, and for the most part, she's glad that they're still taking things slow.

Well, slow in some respects, given that they'd ended up in bed on their third date. From the moment she'd cuffed one of his employees and dragged her out of Walsh's store to reschedule a court appearance for indecent exposure, there had been something there, a spark that he'd wasted no time in fanning when she'd returned the next day to get him to sign the usual paperwork.

The physical side of things has never been an issue. (After all, sex is easy. It's relationships that are terrifying.) If she's perfectly honest, until a few months ago, Emma didn't actually think there were _any _issues. But lately, little things have been bothering her, things that she can't really explain, things that would sound mean and petty if she said them out loud.

Sometimes, it's easier to say nothing.

"Hey, you still with me?"

She blinks to find Walsh gazing at her, his expression impatient. As soon as their eyes meet, though, he smiles broadly, making her wonder if she imagined it. "God, I'm sorry." Looking down, she sees that he's already stowed her overnight bag in his room, and is clutching his car keys. "I really zoned out there, didn't I?"

Running his hand down her back, he presses a kiss to the side of her head. "Everything okay?"

"Yep." She smiles back at him, determined not to drag him into the vortex of her strange mood. "Been a long day at work, but I'm good to go."

He looks as though he wants to say something, but instead he just smiles, and she feels a flicker of frustration, because he's obviously tiptoeing around her and she wishes he wouldn't. "If you'd rather just stay in, I could cook-"

"No, no, I'm fine, really." She gestures between them, then picks up her purse, because she doesn't want to stay home and have him wait on her, not tonight. "Besides, we're dressed to kill and you've already booked the window table."

For the first time she arrived, he seems to relax. "Well, when you put it like that, we'd be crazy _not_ to go."

* * *

><p>The sound of a key in the lock of their front door makes Killian's stomach clench with anticipation, and he hates himself a little for it. He knows it can't be David and Mary Margaret (they only left for brunch an hour ago) and his pulse quickens as he listens to Emma's distinctive footsteps. She makes her way into her bedroom, lingering long enough to toss her belongings onto her bed perhaps, then she's strolling into the kitchen, smiling when she catches sight of him sprawled at the kitchen table. "Hey."<p>

"Hmm." He pauses in his perusal of the newspaper, putting a thoughtful finger to his lips as he stares at her. "Swan, isn't it?"

"Ha, _ha._" She pulls a face at him as she wrenches open the door of the refrigerator and peers inside. "I haven't been AWOL _that_ long."

He begs to differ. He hasn't seen her since Friday morning, and it's now midday on Saturday. Given the events of Thursday evening, it has felt like an eternity. As she's engrossed in her perusal of their chilled foodstuffs, he's at his leisure to admire the alluring picture she makes in her red sweater and jeans, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. She's wearing no makeup or earrings, as though she's dressed quickly after sleeping late, and he realises with a pang that's probably exactly what she _has_ done.

It's fine, he thinks. He can do this. "Nice dinner last night?"

She shrugs, her gaze firmly focused on the contents of their refrigerator. "Ugh. There is _nothing_ to eat."

He files away the ignoring of his question (to be obsessed over at a later time, it pains him to admit) and clears his throat. "Our definitions of the word 'nothing' obviously differ greatly."

"You know what I mean." He tries and fails not to stare at the wonderful swell of her arse as she bends to inspect the far reaches of the shelves. Knowing she's come from another man's bed makes no difference to his libido, it seems. "There's no meat, no cheese, no snack stuff." With a sigh, she straightens and turns to him, pinning him into his chair with a suddenly intent, bright green stare. "Wanna go buy some groceries?"

Amused by this sudden enthusiasm for a domestic chore she normally avoids like the plague, he grins. "Who are you, and _what_ have you done with Emma Swan?"

She gives him an unimpressed look that might have disheartened a lesser man, but he's made of sterner stuff. "I was just thinking that Mary Margaret and David are always the ones who end up doing the weekly grocery run," she mutters as she takes the magnetic shopping list from the door of the refrigerator. "Maybe we should give them the week off for once."

He has never really enjoyed trailing about the supermarket, inevitably pushing a dodgy cart with one unreliable wheel, but suddenly the prospect is rather appealing. "Only if we take my car."

"What's wrong with mine?"

"Nothing, darling." He's not sure he's up for the challenge of spending an hour or two squeezed together into that cozy little car of hers. "Your wee yellow insect is _extremely _charming, however perhaps a little more trunk space might be in order."

She smirks. "You mean like the space in that giant all-terrain thing of yours that you never drive anywhere except on perfectly sealed roads?"

He waves a dismissive hand. It's an accusation he's heard many a time from all three of his housemates, but when the weather turns nasty and the streets are icy and they need to get safely from A to B, they always sing a different tune. "Mark my words, Swan. One day, I'm going to take that car and-"

"Yes, yes. I know." She's laughing at him now, but he finds he doesn't mind, not in the slightest. "You're going to take that car and drive it until you reach the sea, and then you'll make a campfire and stare at the stars until you forget the rat race you've left behind." He stares at her, mute with surprise at the odd tenderness in her voice, and her smile falters. "Hey, I'm kidding, okay?"

"No, I know." Pushing back his chair, he gets to his feet, carefully folding his newspaper as an excuse to give his hands something to do. "I just wasn't expecting to hear my own words quoted back to me quite so _verbatim_, as it were."

She makes a show of rolling her eyes, but he sees the smile lingering in her eyes. "What have I told you about using Latin on me before lunch?"

He closes the distance between them with three easy strides, because if he's going to torture himself today, he may as well enjoy it. When he's close enough to smell the subtle spice of her perfume, he taps her hip lightly with his folded newspaper. "You love it when I break out the Latin, Swan, you just don't want to admit it."

"Your ego knows no bounds, Jones." Despite the snappy comeback, he can see the colour staining her cheeks, although whether the newspaper tap or his teasing words are the cause, he's not sure. It doesn't matter, to be honest, because she hasn't stepped away from him and now he can feel the warmth of her body. If he so chose, he could count the number of freckles dusting her nose and cheeks, catalogue the silver flecks in her green eyes if he didn't already know them by heart. The high ponytail she's wearing has exposed the long line of her throat, and he remembers the fluttering of her pulse beneath his tongue. Her face is scant inches from his, close enough for him to-

No.

Stop.

This is madness.

Taking a half-step backwards, he refuses to let himself hope that the flicker of _something_ he sees in her eyes is disappointment. "I'll let you drive my car," he hears himself say, and her whole face lights up.

"_Yes_."

She has his car keys in her hand before he can even find his wallet, and is impatiently waiting for him at the front door like an excited child. "I thought you disapproved of my car, Swan," he drawls as he slips his phone into his back pocket, pleased by the lighthearted tone of his voice.

She gives him a patently _oh, please_ look. "That doesn't mean I don't like driving it," she shoots back, jingling his keys in her hand as she opens their front door. "Come on, let's go."

Flicking off the hallway light (Mary Margaret is quite pedantic about such things, and he does like to keep the lady happy), he makes his way to the front door. "Sounds like _someone_ got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning."

Her gaze narrows. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's just an expression, love." It appears he's struck a nerve, and common sense tells him that he should let it pass, but he's never had much common sense when it comes to this woman. "You _do _seem a little jagged around the edges, if I may be so bold."

She hesitates, then shrugs as she leads the way to the elevator that will take them to the ground floor. "Just tired, I guess. I didn't get much sleep last night."

Knowing all too well the most likely reason why she didn't get much sleep last night, Killian is very glad she can't see his face. "Unlike my good self, who was tucked up like an innocent babe well before the witching hour, sleeping the sleep of the chaste."

The elevator bell dings, and she swings around to give him a look of exaggerated disbelief as they step into the lift together. "Chaste? You?"

Perhaps he should find her incredulity flattering, but it doesn't sit well with him today. "Indeed."

She frowns. "I thought you were going out for a drink after work."

"I did." He presses the button for the ground floor, then leans against the battered wood paneling, giving himself an uninterrupted view of her lovely profile. "I had a few pints with Victor, then pulled the pin and came home."

She snickers – actually _snickers_ – under her breath as she leans against the opposite elevator wall, one hand toying with the end of her long ponytail. "Lightweight."

"Look who's talking, love." Hooking his thumbs into his belt (a surefire way to stop himself from doing something foolish like touching her) he smiles at her. "I wasn't the one nursing a nasty hangover after a few paltry shots of vodka."

"Seriously?" The light of battle gleams in her eyes as they reach the ground floor and head for the front entrance, and he should hate himself for the thrill of anticipation that ripples through him, but he's enjoying himself far too much. "You want to be careful with all that boasting, Jones," Emma tells him as she pushes open the heavy glass door before he has a chance to do the honours. "People might think you're overcompensating."

She gestures to where his car is parked (it's his week to utilize the treasured space allocated to their apartment), a smirk tugging at her lips. "I mean, come _on._"

He's torn between defending his choice of oversized vehicle and being rather taken aback that Emma Swan appears to be flirting with him while she's completely sober. He has no idea what's come over her in the last few days (she still hasn't told him how her dinner with Walsh went last night), but he'll be damned if he lets such a golden opportunity slip through his fingers.

He steps to her side, putting his mouth close to her ear just as she's about to unlock his car. He feels her whole body become still and hears her sharp intake of breath and, God help him, it only spurs him on. "I can assure you, Swan," he murmurs, almost but not quite letting his lips brush her earlobe, "that I've never felt the need to compensate for _anything_."

They might be standing in the midday sun, but he has a fair idea it's not entirely responsible for the sudden increase in temperature around them. There's a silence of precisely three seconds, then she lifts her chin, her gaze meeting his with a faintest air of challenge. "Is that right?"

His breath catches in his throat. He can smell her perfume, but it's the warm scent of skin underneath that has his gut tightening. He could kiss her right now, he realises. He could kiss her right now and she would let him. She'd let him, and then she'd come to her senses and push him away, and he's not sure he has it in him to weather such a storm today.

So, just as he'd broken their impasse in the kitchen earlier, he does so again, taking a half-step back and putting some much needed space between them. "It's bad form to impugn a man's masculinity before he's had a chance to eat lunch, Swan." He nods at the keys in her hand. "Come on, driver, hop to it."

"Idiot," she mutters as she rolls her eyes, but the blush creeping across her cheeks (not to mention her white-knuckled grip on his car keys) is more than enough to put a smile on his face as he heads for the passenger's side door. If he were keeping score - which he's not, what kind of a gentleman would that make him – he'd definitely chalk up a point for himself right now.

* * *

><p>Grocery shopping with Killian Jones is emotionally draining, reminding Emma of why she usually lets David and Mary Margaret take care of this particular chore. It's also a hell of a lot of fun, which is another reason why she usually avoids going on these kinds of domestic adventures with him.<p>

She doesn't need reminding that this isn't actually her life. Yes, he's her friend and they might live under the same roof, but that's as far as it goes, and being fed little crumbs of what it would be like to actually be _with _himjust leaves her feeling restless and annoyed with herself. After that little stunt he pulled outside their apartment building, with the whispering and the getting right into her personal space and basically making her think that he'd been about to kiss her (she'd had freaking goosebumps on her goosebumps, for fuck's sake) she's not sure she's got the energy for this.

Easier said than done, of course, and right now she's following him down the condiments aisle and has given up pretending she's not enjoying how his ass looks in those threadbare jeans. She has no idea how any of his staff get anything done whenever it's Casual Day. _No wonder he keeps having to hire new secretaries, _she thinks, biting her bottom lip as he crouches down to examine a low shelf filled with chipotle sauce bottles. _Obviously the strain's too much for them. _ Who the hell told him it was okay for him to wear that gray button-down shirt that rides up at the back, anyway?

"Swan, which of these do you prefer?"

And this would be the other reason why grocery shopping with Killian Jones is emotionally draining, she muses. Every single item must be vetted and examined and approved by both of them before it is allowed into the cart. "I picked the ice-cream, so this decision is all yours."

He looks up at her, his bright blue eyes dancing with mischief, teeth flashing white against his dark stubble as he smiles. "But what if I pick one that you absolutely despise and you hate me for it?"

She grins, leaning her elbows on the handle of their cart. "Well, I hate you already, so that won't be an issue."

_I hate you sometimes._

The words pop into her head out of nowhere, making her blink. _What the hell was that?_

Killian slowly straightens up, his eyes never leaving her face, something dark and unfamiliar swimming in his gaze. "You okay there, Swan?"

She rubs her fingertips over her forehead (why, she has no idea, it's not as though she'll be able to sense any weird brain activity) and gives him a smile that doesn't quite feel at home on her lips. "Yeah, just a bit of déjà vu, I guess."

He looks as if he wants to say something, but turns instead and picks not one but two different types of chipotle sauce off the shelf. Catching her eye as he places them carefully in the cart, he shrugs. "Just covering my bases."

"Typical lawyer," she tosses at him as she starts to push the cart, and he gives her that smirk that never fails to make the pit of her belly twitch, the one where he catches the tip of his tongue between his teeth.

He falls into step beside her, his shoulder occasionally brushing against hers in a way that should be annoying but instead just makes her even more aware of the fact that he smells _really_ great and she wishes _her_ hair would look that good after spending less than sixty seconds on it. "You know, you still haven't answered my question."

"About chili sauce?" She gestures towards the bottles now nestled in the cart between the rocky road ice cream and the block of expensive wedge of brie he'd insisted on adding. "Pretty sure we've got that covered."

"No, about your dinner last night."

Her hands tighten on the handle of the cart. Damn him and his freaking sixth sense. Why does he always have to ask questions that make her want to cut and run? And why does she almost always end up answering them anyway? She really doesn't want to talk to him about Walsh, but she still finds herself replying. "The food was great."

"Ah."

"What?"

"As you said yourself, darling, typical lawyer." He bumps his shoulder against hers in what she thinks is meant as a gesture of solidarity, but just makes her skin prickle all over. "We're trained to hear what's _not_ being said, as well as what's actually uttered."

She shrugs, making a show of examining the scarily wide variety of mayonnaise on the shelf. Yet another reason why she hates doing this, she thinks. Too much choice. "Nothing to tell." She selects a jar at random, huffing under her breath when Killian takes it gently from her hand to examine the label. "We had some nice food, came home, watched some late night TV, then we went to bed."

She inwardly winces at the rosy picture she's just painted, but she's not about to share that Walsh had once again brought up the subject of her moving in with him, or the awkward silence that had followed her answer (the same one she always gives him) that she's not ready to live together yet. She also has no intention of telling Killian that Walsh had been annoyingly vague about why he'd had to cancel dinner the night before, or the fact that he'd told her he was 'really tired' once they'd climbed into bed and she'd lain awake for ages after he'd fallen asleep, wondering what the hell was going on, knowing in her heart that whatever it was, it wasn't just her. "You know, just the usual stuff."

"Sounds lovely." Maybe it's just her imagination, but Killian is studying that label with a lot more intensity than a jar of mayonnaise warrants. "Just checking for palm oil," he finally says, sliding the jar into the cart without looking at her. "It's in bloody everything these days."

She can't help noticing that the tips of his ears are pink.

"Says the man who drives a gas guzzler."

He merely gives her a serene smile. "A man has to pick his battles, darling." Without giving her the chance to reply, he looks at their brimming cart, then nods with satisfaction. "Right, I think that's enough, don't you?"

Emma eyes the mountain of items they seem to have collected without her even noticing it, and winces at the thought of her bank balance. This was her idea, after all, but her monthly payday isn't until next Monday. "That's a _lot_ of stuff."

As usual, he picks up on her unspoken question, and this time, she's grateful. "I'll foot the bill for this one," he tells her, as cheerfully as though he's offering to buy a round at the bar rather than a cartful of groceries. "That way I can devour all those packets of upmarket chocolate biscuits with a clear conscience."

"Cookies," she corrects him without thinking (she always does) and he arches one dark eyebrow, lifting his hand to her face and lightly tapping the tip of her nose with his fingertip.

"Potatoh, potahto, love."

She stares at him as she feels the telltale heat creep up the back of her neck, making her scalp prickle. Seriously, what the hell was going on with him lately? Yesterday morning, he could barely bring himself to say two words to her, and now he's turned the charm up to eleven. "We can work out the four-way split once we get home, just like we always do," she mutters as he swings the cart into the cashier line. "Don't think I'm letting you eat all those chocolate biscuits by yourself, _mate_."

His eyes light up the way they always do when she (badly) imitates his accent, and too late she recognises the gleam of devilry in them. "Blimey! Perhaps we can have a chinwag over a nice cup of tea while we scoff the lot of 'em? You seem like a cracking bird, I bet you'd be well up for it."

The cashier is staring at them now, but Emma doesn't care. Laughter bubbles up in her throat, as though she's inhaled a whole bottle of soda water, and she can only wave Killian ahead of her, hoping he takes the hint and starts loading their things onto the conveyor belt. "Tell me the truth," she finally gasps when she can get some air into her lungs, wiping her damp eyes. "That's your standard pick-up line when you're out drinking with Victor, isn't it?"

"Oh, no, Swan."

Pausing in his stacking, he once again leans into her personal space, his eyes impossibly blue under the fluorescent lighting, and she feels something tight and hot begins to coil in the pit of her stomach. _Too close,_ she thinks with faint panic, but she doesn't move. She can't. She's waiting, although for what, exactly, she's not sure. His gaze drops from her eyes to her mouth, then back to her eyes once more.

"I was saving that one especially for you."

With that, he gives her a bright blue wink and turns back to the cashier, the two of them immediately beginning a lively conversation about the damned chipotle sauce. She watches him as he chats happily to the cashier, an older woman with graying hair, watching the way she beams at him as though he's made her day.

Emma barely hears a word of it. Her blood humming in her ears, she swallows the lump that seems to have taken up residence in her throat. As she watches him, a wistful ache hollows out her chest. It's weird, but she keeps getting the feeling that she's missed the punchline of some hilarious joke, trying to catch up while everyone else around her is laughing their heads off.

_I hate you sometimes._

She frowns. Seriously, what the hell had that been about, anyway?

"Come along, Swan." Killian's hand is suddenly on her arm, tugging her towards their cart, which is now laden with grocery bags. "We're holding up the line."

With his usual efficiency, he's bundled both her and their cart out into the parking lot before she's even had time to feel guilty about letting him pay for all the food. Once they're outside, he looks at her, a smile playing about his lips. "Fancy a cup of tea when we get home then, missus?"

"That depends." Deciding that two can play at this game, even if she doesn't know what game they're playing, she leans one hip against the cart, twisting her finger around the end of her ponytail as she meets his gaze. She has no business flirting like this, not when she's with someone else, but it's as though she can't stop herself. "Are you prepared to share those chocolate cookies willingly," she leans forward, knowing the low neckline of her sweater will slip even lower as she does, "or do I have to get tough with you?"

She stops talking then, because he's blushing. The man who has made casually bedding woman without batting an eyelid into an art form is blushing, his gaze carefully avoiding her cleavage, and it suddenly hits her.

He's blushing because of _her_.

This is bad.

This is one can of worms she should_ not_ have opened, not when things are weird with Walsh, not when she'd already resigned herself long ago to the fact that Killian Jones was very much a 'look but don't touch' person in her life.

Not when she's still so stupidly in love with him that right now it feels like someone has reached into her chest and is twisting her heart.

"Um, maybe you should drive home," she mutters, digging his car keys out of her purse. Her fingers brush his as she hands them over, and she feels a tingle of sensation, as though static electricity is flickering along her skin. Startled, she lifts her gaze to meet his, and she sees the same muted shock in his eyes.

_Jesus. _This is _very_ bad.

"As you wish, milady." He grips the handle of the cart with both hands, his gaze once again carefully averted. "Let's go home."

The return journey is mostly silent, and she's never been so grateful for the collection of cheesy CDs he keeps in his car, the music filling the spaces where their words would normally be.

_Home,_ she thinks longingly. It sounds good when he says it, making her feel as though their apartment is something that they truly share, a place she can always rely upon to always be there. But this is real life, and things are never that simple. David and Mary Margaret will want their own place sooner or later, and she's known Killian way too long to think that he's actually changed his tune about love and everything that goes along with it, like commitment.

She's been looking for something that feels like home for as long as she can remember, and yet when Walsh had raised the issue of her moving into his place last night over dinner, she had felt as though she was suffocating.

(Maybe she and Killian are more alike than she likes to admit.)

She needs to talk to someone. Someone who will listen, someone who won't let their own rose-colored glasses influence their judgment. Someone who will tell her what they really think, instead of what they think she wants to hear.

In other words, she needs to talk to David, just like she always does when she's considering doing something stupid. Seriously, he should just change his name to Emma's Sounding Board and be done with it.

"Thanks again for doing this," she finally ventures as Killian pulls into their street, and her flashes her a relieved smile, as though he's pleased she's broken their conversational deadlock.

"It was my pleasure, Swan." He drives into their allocated parking space, giving her another wink as he shuts off the engine, and this time she feels it right down to the tips of her toes. "Although I must admit, I'm secretly disappointed you didn't have to get tough with me."

If she'd thought she was doing a good job of flirting earlier, then the way he says those two words leaves her in the dust. Coming from him, they sound almost obscene. Her face suddenly hot and her palms damp, she literally cannot think of a single comeback. Not that he really gives her the chance to speak, because he quickly unbuckles his seatbelt and opens his door, slipping gracefully from the car to leave her sitting alone with her thoughts and the sinking realisation that once a particular can of worms has been opened, there's no closing it back up again.

Long story short, she's screwed.

The question now is, what the hell is she going to do about it?


	4. Chapter 4

A quick text message to David before they start unpacking the car brings forth the man himself, freshly arrived home from having brunch with his lovely companion and ready to help haul the numerous bags of groceries up to their fourth floor apartment. Killian has to admit, he's very glad to see him, and not just because of the bag-carrying assistance. "Thanks, mate."

"My pleasure." David grins as he grabs several bags in each hand, clearly amused by this unusual turn of events. "I have to tell you, we thought the text Emma sent earlier about you two going to the supermarket was a joke."

"We got everything on Mary Margaret's list," Emma reassures him as she hands the last two bags to Killian, her gaze carefully avoiding his. "Even those weird crackers that she's suddenly decided she loves."

"Those seaweed things?" David wrinkles his nose. "To be honest, I was hoping maybe you'd forgotten that particular item."

The three of them make their way into the building and then into the elevator, Emma good-naturedly grousing the whole way. "Seriously, I don't know how you and Mary Margaret can actually enjoy doing this."

His hands full, David presses the button for the fourth floor with his elbow. "At least we're not in a walk-up, right?"

"Perhaps next time we can borrow Mary Margaret's quaint little shopping trolley on wheels," Killian suggests and, although she's currently refusing to look at him, he sees the smile flash across Emma's face. He suspects she's dying to pull him up on his use of the word _trolley_ rather than _cart_, and makes a mental note to slip as many Britishisms (as she so gleefully likes to call them) into his conversation as possible.

(He realises this could be classified as immature, but given the last few days, perhaps he might be forgiven for using every available weapon in his arsenal.)

Once they reach the apartment, they're greeted warmly by Mary Margaret, who seems both delighted and confused that she doesn't have to visit the supermarket this weekend. She threads her arm through Emma's as she inspects a carry bag filled with fruit, and Killian can't help but envy their easy intimacy. "You two did a great job." She steals a grape from the bag, her dimples flashing as she smiles at Emma. "Maybe David and I should let you do it more often."

"Thanks, but no thanks," Emma shoots back before he can speak, gesturing towards him with one hand. "Do you have any idea how long it takes this one to decide which loaf of bread is good enough to be allowed in the cart?"

It seems she's forgotten that she's trying to pretend he's not there, and he hides a smile as he dumps the bags he's carrying onto the kitchen table. "Well, I've always felt that there's no point doing something unless you going to do itproperly, Swan."

Leaning one hip against the kitchen counter, Emma sighs loudly as the other two begin to unpack the groceries in earnest. "Slow doesn't automatically mean better."

"Well, that all depends on the context, don't you think?" God help him, he knows he should bite his tongue, but surely he can't be expected to ignore such a perfect opening. "After all, why rush something when you can savor it?"

And just like that, they're staring at each other and he can feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, because she's looking at him as though he's just made the most obscene suggestion she's ever heard in her life and, underneath the polite double entendre, perhaps he has.

_Bloody hell_.

The clearing of a masculine throat makes him realise that their housemates appear to be observing proceedings as though they're at a tennis match, looking from one side of the kitchen to the other. "You guys want coffee?"

Her face pink, Emma turns away from him to smile at David. "That would be great, thanks." With that, she picks up a carry bag of chilled goods and heads for the refrigerator, and Killian knows she's just staged a tactical retreat. Perhaps it's time he did the same.

"Nothing for me, mate." He tosses his friend a smile. "I've got a date with my laptop."

"Too much infor-_mation_," sings Mary Margaret in an amused voice, and he thinks, not for the first time, that she truly is the walking embodiment of a school teacher. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that Emma is listening to their conversation, and once again he can't leave well enough alone.

"Far be it from me to disappoint you, milady," he tells Mary Margaret as he passes her, reaching out and ruffling her hair, just the way he knows she hates. "But I'm merely off to Skype with my brother."

David laughs as he sets up a line of mugs on the counter next to the espresso machine. "You should know by now that school teachers are naturally suspicious people."

Mary Margaret reaches out and pinches David's backside, making him jump. "Occupational hazard."

The pair of them laugh, making doe-eyes at each other. Emma shakes her head at them, then returns to reorganizing the shelves in the refrigerator, carefully avoiding looking in his direction.

To be honest, it's something of a relief to escape into his bedroom and shut the door behind him.

It takes ten minutes or so for the blasted wifi to decide to behave itself, but finally he's looking at his brother's unshaven mug on the screen. "Is that really you?" Killian can literally feel the sarcasm humming across the great divide. "I was starting to think that you'd been picked up for drunk and disorderly behaviour again."

Killian rolls his eyes. "You're never going to let that one go, are you?"

Liam grins into the camera at his end. "_You_ wouldn't let it go if _I_ was the one who'd been nicked for singing for singing songs from The Little Mermaid at three in the morning at the top of my lungs in a quiet suburban street."

Killian sighs, briefly wishing he'd simply texted his brother rather than indulging in more elaborate technology. "That was Scarlet's fault."

His brother's smile widens. "That's odd, he's always said it was yours."

"That's because he's an untrustworthy git." Killian shifts against the mountain of pillows at his back, thinking that perhaps one day he'll find a comfortable position to use this bloody laptop. "Now that we've gotten the usual pleasantries out of the way, how are you?" He grins at his brother's image on the screen. "Has that beautiful wife of yours come to her senses yet and realised that she can do so much better?"

"Luckily for me, she values brains over brawn."

They chat back and forth for a while, the usual easy, almost careless exchange that comes of living in each other's pockets for the first twenty years of one's existence. After Liam has dutifully emailed through new photos of James (his two year-old son) and Molly (the six month-old something-doodle puppy), he waggles an admonishing finger at Killian. "You really should come for a visit. James will be applying for university places by the time you see him next."

A pang of guilt twists through Killian's chest. He brother's right – it's been far too long since they've seen each other in person. "Why don't you lot come here instead?"

Liam shakes his head. "You know we'd love to, but we're going to visit Annie's family in Scotland in February, and I don't think I could wrangle any more time away from the office."

"Bumped down the list in favour of the dreaded in-laws."

"Speaking of which, I take it you're still gainfully employed?"

"Yes, and busier than ever. Thank God for the human race and their constant need to legally bind themselves to another person and then drag them through the court system when it all falls apart."

Liam looks amused. "Still feeling superior to those of us who are brave enough to tie the knot?" Killian says nothing, and his brother shakes his head at him. "You'll change your mind one day."

Killian opens his mouth to make his usual remark about fools and their independence soon being parted, but instead finds himself saying something quite different. "Perhaps."

Liam stares at him through the computer screen for a beat, then he smiles. "You've met someone."

He'd forgotten how irritatingly perceptive his older brother could be. "No, I haven't met someone._" _Technically, it's the truth. After all, he's known Emma Swan since he was at university.

"I've been your big brother for twenty-nine years, Killian." On the other side of the world, Liam takes a sip of what looks like an energy drink. "You really think I can't tell when you're talking through your arse?"

"Since when do you drink that rubbish?"

"Since my son turned two and began his reign of terror." Liam sighs. "Sometimes, I think maybe I should just pour it in my coffee and be done with it."

Killian laughs. "Well, that's what you get for procreating, mate."

His brother gives him a stern look he remembers only too well from their childhood. "Nice attempt to divert the conversation, but let's have it."

_Bugger_. Killian rubs his hand across his eyes before giving himself a mental shake. This was what he wanted, wasn't it? Someone in whom he could confide about the mess he's currently making of his personal life? "It's Emma."

Liam's eyes widen. "I'm sorry, but did you just say _Emma_?

"Yes."

"You're seeing Emma."

He hates that his brother looks so happy about this tidbit of information, given that he's about to disappoint him. "No, she's still dating that simian-faced entrepreneur."

Confusion flickers briefly across his brother's face, then he sighs. "Right. So you haven't actually gotten around to telling her you've been in love with her since the dawn of time."

He winces at Liam's blunt assessment. "Not as such, no."

If Liam's current expression had a name, Killian thinks, it would be something akin to _for fuck's sake. _"Tell me, little brother. How is it that you have been capable of being upfront and honest with every other woman you've ever encountered but when it comes to Emma you turn into a stubborn idiot who can't tell her how he feels about her to save himself?"

"It's not as simple as that."

"Killian, I'm tired." Liam drags one hand through his hair, making the tousled curls stand on end. "Just tell me what's actually going on with the pair of you."

"You need to get yourself a haircut." Killian gestures towards his own head. "You're starting to look like our Mum."

His brother glares at him. "Just tell me before my demon spawn child wakes up and summons me to do his bidding, will you?"

He spends the next thirty minutes baring his soul to his brother. All of it, from the drunken kiss, the inconvenient fact that Emma doesn't remember it in the slightest, and finally to the strange tension that now seems to be simmering between them, despite her lapse in memory.

Liam listens carefully, his chin propped up on his hand, long fingers drumming against his cheek. "Well, one thing's clear."

"And that is?"

His brother smiles. "You're fucked, mate."

Killian sighs. "I was afraid of that."

* * *

><p>As soon as the groceries are all stashed away, Mary Margaret looks at her watch and makes a sound of dismay. "Darn it."<p>

David frowns, looking up from his coffee-making efforts. "What's up?"

Mary Margaret washes her hands at the sink, then dries them quickly. "I told Mom I'd call her at two, and it's almost three." Picking up her phone, she presses a kiss to David's cheek, then nods apologetically towards the china mug with the bright red apple on it. "I might wait until later, if that's okay."

Listening, Emma smiles as she shoves the last of the carry bags onto the bottom shelf in the pantry. Her friend's mother is notoriously chatty, and sometimes the weekly phone call can go for over an hour. David puts the apple mug to one side, and goes back to making coffee for himself and Emma. "Good plan. Wouldn't want it to go cold."

Phone in hand, Mary Margaret vanishes into the bedroom she shares with David, and Emma tries not to think about all the mother-daughter phone calls absent from her own life. She's been trying not to think about stuff like this ever since she can remember. Most of the time, she succeeds.

Practice makes perfect, right?

When the coffee is ready (David insists on adding a sprinkle of chocolate to each mug), Emma takes her with a smile of thanks and a question. "Hey, wanna go up to the roof?"

It's an odd request, but David doesn't miss a beat. _And this is why he's her sounding board_, she thinks. Or maybe he's just noticed that she keeps glancing in the direction of Killian's closed bedroom door and realised that she wants some privacy. "Sure."

A few minutes later, they're camped out at the wooden table in the outdoor spare that they officially share with the occupants of the other apartment on their floor. The people in 4B are an elderly couple who don't like using the stairs and an adult daughter who is never home, so they usually have it to themselves. Just as well, Emma thinks, because she really doesn't want her neighbours eavesdropping on her ridiculous personal problems. She waits until David's had time to take a few sips of his coffee, then takes a deep breath. "It's nice you've got the whole weekend off."

Well, maybe there's room for some more procrastination before she spills her guts.

"Sure is." He grins at her. "Not that I don't love my job-"

Emma laughs, thinking that she'd had exactly the same conversation with Mary Margaret the night before. David's job also involves dozens of unruly small creatures, but in his case, they have four legs rather than two. From what she can tell, being the Director of Shelter Operations at the city's animal rescue league is both physically and emotionally exhausting and David would literally have to be dragged kicking and screaming out of that place before he'd quit. No wonder he and Mary Margaret were drawn to each other from the very beginning. "Okay, here's the thing. I need to get your perspective on something."

"Of course."

It's a cool afternoon, and she finds herself cupping her hands around her coffee mug. Then again, maybe she's still just stalling. "It's personal stuff."

Still just stalling, apparently.

David gives her an encouraging smile. "That's fine."

She takes another deep breath, then she looks at him. "Walsh asked me to move in with him."

"Again?" David's eyebrows quirk upwards. "Well, he's not a quitter, I'll say that for him." His smile fades as he looks at her. "Okay, is this why we're up here? Are you going to break it to me gently that we need to find a replacement flatmate because you're moving in with Walsh?"

And just like that, she feels that odd sense of not being able to breathe properly. "_God,_ no."

David's smile is a wry one, and he nods as he picks up his mug. "Ah."

She stares at him, wondering what the hell she did to be saddled with _two_male flatmates who seem to be psychic when it comes to her. "What's _ah_mean?"

"I'm guessing that what you want to talk about is that you don't _want_ to move in with Walsh, and that you're annoyed at him for asking you again and with yourself because you think that you _should_ want to move with him."

Emma shakes her head. Every time she has this kind of conversation with David, it becomes more and more obvious how he and Mary Margaret had managed to meet, start dating and decide they'd found their one true love all in the space of a month. Propping her elbows on the table, she puts her head in her hands and closes her eyes. "What's wrong with me? Why can't I ever just be happy with what I've got?"

David's voice is gentle. "Because you're human?"

"Seriously?"

She hears him laugh under his breath, then the feel of him awkwardly patting the top of her bowed head. "Emma, it's okay if you don't feel that moving in with Walsh is the best thing for you right now. Maybe you just need time-"

"No."

It's an emphatic denial, and it leaves her mouth without her even having to think about it. She lifts her head to find David gazing at her with something that looks a lot like sympathy. "You know, I think you already know what you want to do. You want me to tell you that you're not a bad person for doing it."

She stares at him, anxiety clenching in the pit of her belly, because she is suddenly afraid that he knows how she feels about Killian, that maybe Mary Margaret knows as well, and if they know, then what's to stop Killian from working it out as well? "You'll have to clue me in, then, because right now I have no freaking idea what I want to do."

David hesitates, as though he doesn't want to be the bearer of bad tidings, then huffs out a soft sigh. "Okay, here goes. Have you considered that maybe the reason you keep saying no when Walsh asks you to move in with him is that you might slowly be coming to the conclusion that he isn't the man of your dreams?"

"But I never-"Horrified at the words that are about to spill from her tongue, she breaks off, biting her bottom lip. "Fuck."

That same sympathy flickers across her friend's face once again. "You were going to say that you never thought he was."

She rubs her eyes with the heels of her palms, as if that might stop the words that are on a loop in her head. It doesn't work, and there's no point in hiding the truth from David, not when she's the one who dragged him up here to talk. "Yeah, I was."

"Which is fine if you're just dating," he begins, and she finishes the sentence, her voice flat even to her own ears.

"But not if things have gotten to the point where you're talking about living together." She takes another sip of coffee without really tasting it (she won't tell David. He's very proud of his barista skills) and knows he's right.

"To be fair," David says carefully, "only one of you seems to be talking about it."

She buries her nose in her coffee mug, hating herself a little more when she thinks of Walsh's hopeful smile when he'd broached the subject last night. "Hmm."

"Living together can be hard work," David goes on, and Emma shoots him an envious smile.

"You and Mary Margaret make it look easy.

He looks pleased by her comment, maybe even a little smug. "That's because we work hard to be open and honest with each other, every day that we're together."

The unabashed pride in his voice makes her throat tighten. She's almost thirty, and sometimes she thinks she'll never get her life together the way these two have done. "So, I guess one day you and Mary Margaret will decide it's time to live by yourselves like real grownups? If you guys had a house, you could actually start bringing home all those strays I know you've been dying to bring home for the last five years."

He chuckles, then drains his coffee cup. "It's not on the agenda at the moment, but one day, sure." He grins. "You and Killian will have to flip a coin for the big bedroom after we've gone."

Emma feels a wave of heat wash across her face and down her throat, lodging itself somewhere in the middle of her chest. When she says nothing, David gives her a searching look. "Or maybe an arm-wrestling challenge might be more your style?"

"Maybe." She pushes back her chair, the urge to flee suddenly overwhelming her. Her coffee's gone cold, but she doesn't care. This conversation has just skated way too close to the edge as far as she's concerned, and it's officially time for her to escape to her room. "Anyway, thanks for the chat, I really appreciate-"

"Emma." David's hand is gentle on her wrist, stopping her from picking up his empty coffee mug. "Is something wrong?"

She gives him a smile she's sure looks just as fake as it feels. "I just told you."

His expression is almost one of fatherly concern, and _that's_ not weird at all. "You know, I don't think you did."

Gently shaking off his hand, she picks up both coffee mugs, then gets to her feet. "I'm fine, I swear."

David gazes at her intently, as if trying to see beneath the surface of her words, then shakes his head. "To be honest, between you stressing over Walsh and Killian coming home alone on a Friday night and then actually agreeing to go _grocery shopping_ with you, I'm starting to wonder if the building management has put something in the water."

Emma's stomach flips over. _Time to go,_ she thinks in faint desperation, but she's too late. She sees the moment it connects in his mind, the instant David puts two and two together and comes up with –

"You and Killian?"

"_No_." She starts to walk away, clutching the freaking coffee mugs to her chest like a shield.

Behind her, she hears the scrape of David's chair as he scrambles to his feet. "Oh, but it all makes sense now."

Her pulse is racing, and despite the cool afternoon air, she's pretty sure she's sweating. "There is no me and Killian."

"Maybe not officially." He catches up to her when she reaches the door to the stairwell. "But that's it, isn't it?"

Defeat suddenly washing over her, she slumps against the door and glares at him, forcing the words out through gritted teeth. "What do you want me to say?"

He smiles at her, his blue eyes wide. "The truth will set you free, my friend."

She tries to keep the heat in her glare, but she's fighting a losing battle. "You and I both know I'm not his type."

David laughs. He actually throws his head back and laughs, and if she didn't love him and Mary Margaret like they were family, she'd punch him right in the face. "I'm sorry, are you serious?"

To her dismay, she can feel her eyes growing hot, the distant pressure of frustrated tears prickling. "Look, my life is complicated enough without pining after someone who has made it _extremely_ clear over the years that they are _not_ interested, okay?"

David is shaking his head at her now, his hands gentle as he takes the coffee cups from her grip. "Are we talking about the same Killian Jones? The vocabulary-abusing neat-freak who rents the smallest bedroom?" He dips his head, catching Emma's gaze with his. "The same Killian Jones who can't seem to ever take his eyes off you whenever you're in the same room? That Killian Jones?"

Her mouth doesn't actually fall open, but it's a close thing. "I don't want to have this conversation with you."

"I agree," he says cheerfully, then ruins it by adding, "you should be having it with _him._"

"I don't think so." Panic flares through her at the thought. "And don't you_dare _say anything to him. Or to Mary Margaret," she tacks on, knowing that demanding the latter is probably asking for the impossible.

_Shit, shit, shit._

Her hands now free, she opens the door to the stairwell and begins a hasty descent, not looking to see if the door swings shut in David's face. It does, but that doesn't stop her from hearing him calling out in a sing-song voice. "I won't tell anyone, I promise, but remember, Emma, the truth will set you_free_!"

* * *

><p>After his less-than-helpful chat with his brother, Killian wastes an hour or so on the internet, then decides he's once again fit for company. When he emerges from his bedroom, he finds David alone, watching some trashy reality show involving police car chases. "The women abandoned you, mate?"<p>

David raises a half-drunk bottle of beer in a toast. "They've gone for a run."

Killian ducks into the kitchen to grab a beer for himself, then sprawls on the opposite couch. "How disgustingly energetic of them."

His friend chuckles. "I suspect there will be as much talking as there is running, if not more." He turns, fixing Killian with a steady blue stare. "No plans tonight?"

Killian shrugs. He's left it too late to call any of the women he's been casually seeing over the last few months, and he's not in the mood for Victor two nights in a row. "Not really."

"Not interested in double dating with Victor and his new waitress?" David's ill-concealed scorn makes him grin. Thanks to their old college friend's single date with Mary Margaret, it seems that Victor Whale will never stop being a sore point as far as David's concerned.

"God, no." Killian takes a swing of beer, watching disinterestedly as a stolen car rams through a police barricade on the television screen. "I thought I might catch a movie."

"Alone?"

The disbelief in David's voice brings out his defensive streak. "It's been done before, mate, I assure you."

As always, his friend is quick to smooth things over. "I know, it's just that you're usually-"

David breaks off, but Killian knows what he was going to say. He's usually with a woman. Usually sleeping in someone else's bed. Usually out carousing until the wee hours of the morning. "I'm giving myself a few nights off from all that nonsense."

_Something_ flashes across his friend's face, then vanishes just as quickly. "Maybe the four of us could do something."

Killian looks at the other man, but sees nothing but David's usual good-natured expression. "Anything particular in mind?"

David sips at his own beer. "There's a new seafood place opened down on the pier that we thought we'd like to try."

Killian stares unseeing at the television. He's sorely tempted, but a whole evening once again dealing with the fact that Emma has no idea that she's turned his life upside down? If he were sensible, he'd err on the side of caution and do his best to avoid Emma until he can get his head (and the rest of his bloody body) sorted. "Sounds good."

Obviously, he's never been very sensible when it comes to Emma Swan.

David sends a text to Mary Margaret, who replies that dinner sounds good and that Emma has no other plans so please reserve a table for four. As David searches for the number of the restaurant, he darts Killian an odd glance. "Weird for Emma to be free on a Saturday night."

"Perhaps Walsh's little furniture shop requires his attention," Killian mutters, not realising the venom in his voice until it's too late, and he finds himself scratching behind his ear in that damned nervous tick as he hastens to cancel out his telling remark. He's always been very careful to keep his dislike of Walsh to himself, but it seems a few cracks are starting to show. "I mean, I can only imagine how demanding work can be when you're your own boss."

"Hmmm." David might seem engrossed in tapping the phone number onto his screen, but Killian sees the knowing smirk curving his mouth. "Anyone would think that you didn't like the man." Whoever is manning the front desk of the new seafood place on the pier answers the phone, and Killian seizes the chance to make his escape.

"I might nab the bathroom before the others get home," he mutters, collecting both empty beer bottles and dumping them into the recycling, easily making his exit while David is busy making the reservation.

Once again, the bathroom exhaust fan doesn't appear to be working (honestly, what does the building super actually _do_ around here?), and the room rapidly fills with steam. He cranks up the hot water as high as he can stand it, letting it run over the tense knots in his neck and shoulders. Too much time sitting at an office desk and not enough time exercising, he thinks unhappily as he cricks his neck to one side. Perhaps he should have joined Emma and Mary Margaret on their run.

Then again, he hadn't been invited to join them, so that may have proved awkward.

On a completely shallow note, he's sorry he missed their exit. Mary Margaret Blanchard is an extremely attractive woman, but the sight of Emma Swan in exercise gear never fails to render him speechless.

Accepting defeat, he closes his eyes, leaning back against the tiled wall as he reaches down to take himself in hand, so to speak. This certainly isn't the first time he's had a wank over Emma Swan, and it definitely won't be the last, but it's the first time since she'd kissed him. Pushed him up against that vanity, her body plastered to his from neck to knee and snogged him so thoroughly that it had been a miracle he hadn't embarrassed himself on the spot.

If they'd been sober, he wouldn't have hesitated. He would have spun her around until she'd been the one pressed against the vanity, those long legs around his hips. He would have pulled up her shirt to kiss those glorious breasts until she begged him to touch her. He would have slipped his hand down her pants, touching the slick flesh between her legs until she gasped and shook in his arms, biting at his mouth as she gripped his arse, pulling him hard against her until his aching cock was pressed right where they both needed more -

_Fuck._

Bracing one hand on the shower screen, he swears beneath his breath as he comes, his cock pulsing in his slippery grasp, his hips arching helplessly away from the damp tiles.

_Well,_ he thinks wryly afterwards as he leans, still panting, against the shower wall, _that must be a new land speed record. _It appears that knowing _exactly_how Emma Swan kisses has added extra spice to his imagination, not that he needed much help in that department.

Drying himself off, he scowls at the broken overhead exhaust once again. The bathroom is still filled with steam, making wiping the condensation off the mirror a study in futility. Wrapping his towel around his waist, he opens the door a crack and listens carefully. The only thing he can hear is that police car chase reality show David is obviously still watching, which informs him that the others haven't returned from their run on two fronts. Firstly, both women hate reality television with a passion and are brutal in their vanquishing of any sign of it, and secondly, they're never exactly quiet when they arrive home from a run.

With the door open, the steam soon evaporates, and he's actually able to see in the mirror. He's just finished towelling his hair dry when he hears the sound of bare feet on the floorboards and a very familiar voice mutter, "Shit, sorry."

"Hang on, love, it's my fault." He whips the towel away from his head to see Emma, resplendent in her black exercise tights and the smallest t-shirt he's ever seen, her face flushed. "Sorry, but that blasted exhaust fan is stuffed again," he tells her, his pulse skipping several beats when he realises she's trying very hard not to look at him and making a bloody terrible job of it. "It was like a Turkish bathhouse in here, so I opened the door."

"I didn't mean to barge in on you." She hesitates, one foot still off the floor, and he's reminded of a wildlife documentary he watched recently, a doe caught in a moment of indecision, deciding whether or not she needed to flee for her own safety.

"No need for apologies, love." He hangs the towel he'd used to dry his hair on the nearest hook, then rubs one palm over his beard, conscious of her eyes following his every movement. "Any man worth his salt would appreciate having someone as lovely as your good self barge in on them."

She flushes, the colour in her cheeks no longer able to be attributed to her recent exercise, and he feels a tiny thrill of triumph. "Just so you know, I'm not in the habit of following men into bathrooms," she shoots back, then stops, her green gaze narrowing as she stares at him. "This is so weird. Have we had this conversation before?"

His heart seems to have leapt into his throat. "Why?"

She frowns, tugging at the bottom of the tiny t-shirt she's wearing, her gaze sweeping over his bare chest and shoulders. "Never mind." Her pale throat works as she swallows hard and, despite his recent release beneath the shower, he literally feels his body temperature start to rise.

Time for yet another tactical retreat, he decides, before his lack of clothing betrays him completely. Still, that doesn't mean he can't fire another salvo before he leaves. "Bathroom's all yours, love."

"Thanks." She moves to one side as he gets to the door, but it doesn't stop him from noticing the faint sheen of perspiration on her chest or that she smells like perfume and sunshine and knowing that if he pressed his mouth to the back of her neck, she'd taste like salt.

Her pupils darken as he brushes past her, his gaze never leaving her face. "It gets pretty steamy in here, Swan." He lets himself look at her soft mouth, then gives himself a mental slap, because he's supposed to be retreating, not digging a bigger hole for himself. "If you wish to leave the door open while you bathe, don't be bashful on _my_ account."

Her lips part on a silent reply, her breathing hitching as she stares at him, her lashes fluttering dark and heavy. Her hands are curled at her sides, and he feels the path of her gaze down his chest and stomach as surely as if she's touching him. And then she pinches him, right between the third and fourth ribs, and he yelps loudly, clutching at his towel. "Bloody hell!"

She smiles at him sweetly, the light of triumph gleaming in her eyes, and he thinks that he's never been more aroused in his life. "Thanks for the tip, but I don't need showering advice from someone who frequents Turkish bathhouses."

God, she's a marvel.

He's still grinning when he reaches his bedroom, his towel still thankfully in place, the sound of the bathroom door being slammed still ringing in his ears. He'll have a bruise on his side tomorrow, but it's a badge of honour he'll gladly wear.

Now all he has to do is get through an evening of polite conversation in an upmarket restaurant with their closest friends and not let his face show how much he wants to drag her into the nearest storage cupboard and beg her to have her wicked way with him.

Scrubbing his hands through his still-damp hair, he perches on the edge of his bed. That's tonight sorted, but what about tomorrow? And the days and weeks and months after that? How long can he keep doing this, wanting so much more and yet trying to convince himself he's content with the current status quo?

His gaze falls on his phone, sitting on his bedside table, and something tightens deep in his chest. With one well-timed swipe of his thumb, he could turn more than one life upside down. Then again, he could also delete the bloody photo, accept that he's playing a mug's game and find somewhere else to live, somewhere that doesn't make him feel as though he's constantly walking a razor's edge of lust and guilt and longing.

He sighs, then trudges to his closet to find something suitable (ie, Mary Margaret-approved) to wear, wondering darkly what would best project the illusion that he's not in love with Emma Swan in any way, shape or form. He suspects he'd need a bloody invisibility cloak to pull off such a feat.

He grins at the nonsensical thought as he pulls out his favourite black shirt. While he's at it with the whole wizarding business, perhaps he could turn Walsh into a flying monkey and send him packing back to Oz. Thinking of Emma's unhappy face when she'd arrived home on Thursday night (the night of her cancelled date and subsequent vodka shots), he decides that in the absence of magic, he'd settle for punching the monkey-faced prick in the face.

Until that glorious day, however, he shall content himself with the undeniable fact that not only is _he_ the one going to dinner with Emma this evening, but that it's only a matter of time before she remembers at least_something _of their drunken kiss. He's seen the flashes of recollection in her eyes twice now, and while he's unbearably tempted to help her along, he'd much prefer if she remembered in her own time.

He's waited this long (God, he truly doesn't want to think how many years the thought of her has been wedged in his heart) and he can certainly bide his time a while longer. If history has shown nothing else, it's proven that when it comes to Emma Swan, he's a very patient man.


	5. Chapter 5

They reach the midway point in their usual running loop before Mary Margaret gives in to her curiosity. "Not that I don't appreciate the chance to work off the second serving of bacon I had at brunch this morning," she huffs as they hit the long straight of the riverside walkway, "but you want to tell me why running was suddenly the most urgent thing on today's agenda?"

Emma matches her pace to the other woman's, reining in the impulse to run hell for leather until her lungs are fit to bursting. "It was either this or punch something."

Her friend's laugh is breathless. "Or some_one_, it sounds like." Emma says nothing (she's already said _way_ too much to David) and she feels Mary Margaret's glance lingering on her. "Well, I can't think of what David and I might have done to provoke such a thing, so I guess we're talking about Walsh."

Emma doesn't bother correcting her. Her relationship with Walsh is a safer topic than what's really troubling her. "He asked me to move in with him."

"Again? What did you say?" Before Emma can say a word, Mary Margaret answers her own question. "Let me guess, you said no."

"Yep."

"Oh, Emma-"

Emma pulls up, abruptly too hot and irritated and in danger of considering punching something all over again. Putting her hands on her hips, she sucks in a few lungfuls of air and gives her friend a heated look. "Oh, Emma, _what_?"

Mary Margaret leans on the metal railing that separates the running track from the riverbank, wiping the back of her hand across her forehead. "You know that man adores you."

Emma walks a few paces back and forth, as much to shake off a sudden feeling of restlessness as to keep her leg muscles from stiffening up. "So he tells me."

The other woman frowns. "But?"

"Saying it is one thing." Squelching the flicker of disloyalty that ripples through her (something she's become worryingly good at it over the last few days), Emma puts both hands on the top rung of the railing and stretches until her arm muscles twinge, wishing she could rid herself of the tightness in her throat as easily. "Actually making me _feel _like he does is another."

She doesn't mention the increasing number of cancelled plans and his phone beeping with incoming texts in the middle of the night every time she sleeps at his apartment. Nor does she mention that they haven't had sex in a month, because that is _not_ a conversation she wants to have with anyone.

Not even with Walsh, apparently.

Mary Margaret's smile is gentle, despite the faint exasperation in her eyes. "Last night you told me that you were happy with the way things were going with Walsh."

Emma hesitates, feeling as though she's about to step out onto an icy sidewalk, with a fifty-fifty chance of falling flat on her face. "I may have exaggerated a little." Before her friend can reply, Emma pushes herself away from the railing and jerks her head towards the direction in which they usually run. "Come on, let's get this damned run over and done with."

Mary Margaret's mouth flattens into a straight line, a sure sign that she's trying very hard not to blurt out something she'll regret. To Emma's relief, the sound of her friend's phone buzzing distracts them both. The other woman disentangles her phone from the gadget she's got strapped around her bicep, smiling when she looks at the screen. "It's from David."

"What a shock," Emma teases as she starts to walk slowly, doing her best not to jump to any unwanted conclusions as to exactly what David might be telling his girlfriend.

"Hush." Mary Margaret trails behind her, obviously engrossed in what she's reading. "Oh, David and Killian want to try that new seafood place on the pier tonight." She looks up with a hopeful grin as Emma narrowly avoids tripping over her own feet at this new development. "That sounds nice, don't you think?"

Emma stares at her. She has no idea whose idea it was to go to dinner, but either way, there's a giant red flag being hoisted in her mind. "I'm not really in the mood."

Mary Margaret raises one well-shaped eyebrow at her. "I thought you said you didn't have any plans."

"Walsh has meetings with a couple of new importers tonight," Emma grudgingly admits as she steps up her pace, forcing her friend to play catch-up.

"Don't you want a nice, relaxing evening with your best friends?" Mary Margaret bumps her shoulder against Emma', her tone politely wheedling. "Nice food, nice wine, no boyfriend-related tension?"

Emma's not in the habit of lying to this woman, and she really doesn't want to start now, but she is_ not_ telling Mary Margaret just how off the mark she is with the whole tension thing. She jogs along in silence for a moment, weighing up the pros and cons of having to deal with the weirdness between her and Killian versus the prospect of spending some quality time with her friends.

It's been ages since the four of them have been anywhere fancier than their local burrito bar together, and it's not as though she and Killian will be alone. In the end, the twin desires to eat food prepared by an actual chef and not spend the night hiding out in her bedroom win out. "Sure, why not."

The feeling of stepping out onto an icy sidewalk returns with a vengeance as soon as the words leave her mouth, but Mary Margaret is already dashing off a reply and it's too late to change her mind now.

_Shit._

Text message sent, her friend slips her phone back into place on her arm strap, then shoots Emma a knowing grin. "Do you need to work off that punching impulse some more, or can we start our loop back now?"

Emma hesitates. She still feels pent-up and restless, but there's no point in exhausting herself if she's expected to go to dinner and do adult things like make conversation. "Nothing wrong with a thorough cool down," she finally says, and Mary Margaret blows out a sigh of relief.

"Thank goodness." Changing direction, they begin to retrace their steps, their pace brisk but not enough to keep them from talking. "I had visions of falling asleep in my clam chowder."

As they walk, they talk about Mary Margaret's students and the Dalmatian puppy that David's fallen in love with at the shelter, and whether or not they should drive to dinner or catch a cab. Not once does her friend mention Walsh, and Emma is grateful, because if she has any more guilt eating away at her insides, she has the feeling that dinner is going to be wasted on her. Five minutes from their apartment, they fall into a companionable silence, and Emma finds her mind drifting in the same damned direction all over again.

_The Killian Jones who can't seem to take his eyes off you whenever you're in the room? That Killian Jones?_

David had laughed when she'd told him that she wasn't Killian's type. Laughed in her face. She knows the two men have been friends for a long time, and out of all of them, David probably knows Killian best, but still –

If she's his type, she thinks with a sudden stab of resentment, why the hell hasn't he ever said anything? This is the guy she's seen seduce complete strangers at a bar with nothing more than a smile and a wink and a comment on the weather. He's not lacking in the confidence department, and God knows they've spent enough time in each other's pockets over the years. It's not possible that he'd be worried about offending her, because she learned a long time ago that his ego was Teflon-coated. He would have had no trouble bouncing back if she'd rebuffed him.

The whole situation is as much depressing as it is unsettling and God, she has _got_ to get out of her own head before she drives herself mad. "What time is dinner?"

"Seven." Mary Margaret presses the button for the elevator, then pulls up her shirt to wipe her face. "God, I'm out of shape," she mutters. "I didn't think it was possible to sweat this much in November."

Emma grins. Her friend is one of the most health-conscious people she knows, even if she can never bring herself to eat any of the apples that her more traditional students present to her. "You're just out of practice," she reassures her, and Mary Margaret gives her a little bow as they step into the elevator.

"Sounds good to me." The other woman hits the button for the fourth floor. "If anyone asks, that's my story and I'm sticking to it."

After a congratulatory high-five in the hallway, they part company. One of the best things about this apartment is the fact that both showers can be used at the same time (seriously, she's lived in places where you couldn't even use _one_ at the same time) and Emma is very glad, because she's sticky and sweaty and in no mood to hang around waiting to take a shower. She pays a quick trip to her bedroom, dumping her trainers and socks, then spends a moment trying to find her robe before remembering she'd left it hanging on the back of the bathroom door this morning.

David is nowhere to be seen, but the crappy reality show he'd been watching when they left is still blaring from the flat screen. Emma rolls her eyes, deciding Mary Margaret can fight that particular battle today, and heads for the bathroom she shares with Killian.

Too late, she notices the steam and the familiar scent of shower gel (_get the one in the black bottle, Swan, I'm not using that pink nonsense) _and pulls up short just inside the bathroom door, her vision suddenly swimming with the sight of her housemate, still damp from the shower and wearing nothing more than a towel around his waist, roughly drying his hair. "Shit, sorry."

At the sound of her voice, he freezes. "Hang on, love, it's my fault," he blurts out, his voice muffled by the smaller towel draped over his head. He pulls it away with a jerk of one hand, his gaze instantly finding hers. "Sorry, but that blasted exhaust fan is stuffed again. It was like a Turkish bathhouse in here, so I opened the door."

Emma stares at him, one word bouncing around in her head.

_Nope._

She needs to back out of this room, right now, but the soles of her feet seem to be glued to the tiles. It's not as though she's never seen him without his shirt before. They've lived in the same apartment for months now, but it's always been fleeting glimpses, just enough to hint at the existence of a nicely muscled chest and decent abs and broad shoulders. This isn't a fleeting glimpse, though. This is different.

This makes her fingers tingle with the urge to touch him.

It makes her want to brush her lips against the curve of his shoulder, swipe the last droplets of water from his skin with her tongue. It makes her want to trail her hand down his chest and stomach, watch his pupils dilate as she traces the line of soft hair downwards from his navel to where the towel is slung low on his hips.

She can barely stand to look at the jut of his hipbones and the curve at the base of his spine. Even his knees are worth staring at, she thinks despairingly.

_Fuck._

She finally manages to find her voice. "I didn't mean to barge in on you."

"No need for apologies, love." As he hangs the smaller towel on the nearest hook, the muscles in his back and arm shift tantalisingly. When he peers at his reflection and scrubs one hand over his whiskered jaw, she finds herself staring at his chest and stomach, her mouth literally going dry, and _God,_ she is beyond screwed here. "Any man worth his salt would appreciate having someone as lovely as your good self barge in on them."

Somewhere amidst the lingering steam and the mortified flush that's heating her face, she hears the compliment he's just paid her, and that only makes it worse. "Just so you know, I'm not in the habit of following men into bathrooms."

He raises one dark eyebrow in a silent challenge of this statement, which makes no sense, and she glares at him where he's lounging so casually near the vanity, the bright overhead light making his eyes look ridiculously blue -

Wait.

_I hate you sometimes._

What the hell?

"This is so weird," she mutters, frowning. "Have we had this conversation before?"

His gaze sweeps over her, from her ponytailed hair right down to her bare feet, lingering over her exercise gear-covered breasts and butt in a way that he's got no fucking business doing, except that she doesn't want him to stop. "Why?"

The intensity of his gaze makes her feel as though she'd already stripped off her clothes before coming into the bathroom and had just forgotten about it. "Never mind." Her mouth is bone dry, but she can't blame the run, not any more.

He smiles, his teeth white against the darkness of his beard. "Bathroom's all yours, love."

"Thanks." This room is usually more than adequate when it comes to space, but it suddenly feels very cramped, especially as he strolls towards her, still dressed in that fucking towel and nothing else.

There's a gleam of amusement in his bright eyes, as if he knows he's pissing her off and is enjoying it thoroughly. "It gets pretty steamy in here, Swan." His gaze drops to her mouth, and it's all she can do not to lick her lips. _Jesus. _"If you wish to leave the door open while you bathe, don't be bashful on _my_ account."

She stares at him, her pulse doing a frenzied dance. It's as though he can't bring himself to simply walk out of the bathroom without trying to push every single one of her buttons, and David's words begin to ring in her ears once again.

_He can't take his eyes off you._

She looks at his smirking mouth, at the dimples that flirt with his stubbled cheeks and the mischief dancing in his eyes, then decides it's time for her to readdress the balance of power. She lets herself look her fill for five whole seconds, her gaze sweeping over his bare chest and shoulders, letting herself imagine all that lean muscle and crisp dusting of hair beneath her palms (or scraping against her breasts, _God,_ she _has_ to get him out of here before she does something she's not sure she'll regret) then lifts her hand to touch him.

He grows absolutely still, his eyes dark as he stares at her. She pinches his side, hard, grabbing a generous measure of damp, smooth skin between her thumb and finger, and he literally jumps on the spot. "Bloody hell!"

It probably says something about her that she _really _enjoys the shock that sweeps across his face, but she's not sure she cares. Giving him her most sickly sweet smile, she nods towards the open door. "Thanks for the tip, but I don't need showering advice from someone who frequents Turkish bathhouses."

His grin widens, as though he couldn't be happier to have just been assaulted and insulted in quick succession. He ducks his head, scratching the back of his neck with one hand, the other tightly securing the towel around his waist, then slips out of the room, leaving her with the very real urge to go after him and see if David is right.

_Shit._

She slams the bathroom door shut. She's never cheated on anyone in her life, and she's not about to start tonight.

But God, she _wants _to, very much, and what kind of terrible person does that make _her_? David would say it would just make her human, but Emma knows that it would make her someone she really doesn't want to be. She has the sinking feeling that a 'very big fork in the road' moment is coming her way, and the thought makes her want to throw an overnight bag into the backseat of the Bug and just drive and drive and drive until she doesn't have to think about it anymore.

It's been a while since she allowed herself to imagine running away, and it suddenly frightens her that the impulse is still lurking so closely beneath the surface of her life.

Shaking her head, she steps into the shower stall, and is instantly regaled with the scent of Killian's shower gel. Her belly clenches, making her annoyed with herself all over again, because she is _not_ in the habit of getting all breathless over the smell of liquid soap from the supermarket, no matter how good it smells when it's applied to a particular person's skin.

She makes the water temperature tepid, not wanting to have to deal with the room full of steam (there's no way she's cracking open that door, not even an inch), and starts to wash her hair. She could run away, or she could get her shit together and go to dinner like an adult.

Okay, an adult who will spend the whole night pretending she's not thinking about what her platonic housemate looks like when he's wearing nothing more than a towel, but _still_ an adult. She thinks again of how droplets of water had clung to the smooth skin of his shoulders, and scrubs at her scalp a little harder than necessary.

Seriously, she's never hated being an adult more.

* * *

><p>"Um, where's Mary Margaret?"<p>

Killian looks up from his book to see Emma hovering behind the opposite couch to where he's sprawled, resplendent in a dark grey dress that reminds him of a costume from that 1960's show about advertising and bed-hopping. "I believe she and David are still ensconced in their room."

He should put more effort into pretending he's not admiring the picture she makes, but the tender spot on his ribs where she'd pinched him earlier appears to be acting as a talisman, strangely enough. He'd been too much of a gentleman to suggest such a thing at the time, but it _had _occurred to him that she'd seemed to have trouble keeping her hands off him, and had resorted to mild violence as a diversion. "May I be of assistance?"

She presses her lips (dark rose-coloured and shiny tonight) together, then shakes her head. "It's okay, I'll wait."

Putting his book aside, he belatedly notices that her dress isn't sitting quite right across her shoulders, the scooped neckline sagging where it should be fitted against her marvellous breasts. More telling is the fact that she's got both arms behind her back, obviously trying to do up her zipper. "One time offer, Swan, free of charge."

She shoots him a fiery green glare across the living room, then elegantly stomps towards him, the heels of her shoes clicking on the floorboards. "Fine." When she reaches where he's sitting, she puts her hands on her hips and gives him a baleful stare. "I hate to break it to you, but you're gonna have to stand up."

He makes a show of getting to his feet, enjoying the way her dimpled chin lifts in silent challenge. "The things I do for you, love."

"Just do up the damned zipper, okay?" She turns her back on him, and he sucks in his breath, because he wasn't expecting the zipper in question to be_quite_ so long or the sides of her dress to be gaping _quite _so much. His gaze sweeps down the supple length of her spine, from the nape of her neck to the delicious curve at the small of her back, greedily memorising the sight of her pale, smooth skin, lightly dusted with freckles like a constellation of stars. "Sometime today would be good, Jones."

Knowing he's his own worst enemy and that there is no time for him to indulge in a cold shower before dinner, he still takes another few precious seconds to admire the dark sheen of her black undergarments against her skin, then clears his throat. "Sorry, love, but you can't blame a man for admiring the view."

He doesn't have to see her expression to know that she's annoyed. "And this would be why I always wait for Mary Margaret," she mutters darkly as he takes hold of the zipper tab and slowly starts to draw it upwards. "Just get on with it, would you?"

His own worst enemy, indeed, because (like the fool that he is) he lets his knuckles brush against her spine, and the sharp hitch in her breathing sends a rush of heat straight to his groin as surely as if she'd moaned a soft sigh into his ear. "It's like I said earlier, Swan." God help him, he sounds as though he's just polished off a packet of smokes and a bottle of rum. "Why rush when you can savour?"

She stands absolutely still while he finishes the task, but he hears her breathing, shallow and rapid. Her perfume teases his nose, cinnamon and oranges and flowers, and the long length of her throat once again taunts him, thanks to the upswept arrangement of her hair. He wants to catalogue and file away every single tiny detail of her, but there's not enough time. When the zipper is finally completely fastened, she steps away without speaking, and he lets his hands fall to his side, lest he do something even more foolish and slide them over the curve of her hips and pull her back towards him.

"Thanks." Her reply is short, almost sharp, tossed over her shoulder without looking at him, and it's only when she stalks from the living room in the direction of her bedroom that he realises he's been holding his breath.

_Bloody hell. _Closing his eyes, he tugs at his own zipper, adjusting the suddenly too-tight fit of his trousers. His brother was, unfortunately, painfully correct in his earlier assessment. When it comes to Emma Swan, he is utterly and irreversibly _fucked_, and not in a good way.

Emma doesn't reappear until Mary Margaret and David have emerged from their bedroom, bringing to mind the term 'safety in numbers'. Even then, she hovers behind them, carefully avoiding looking in his direction. It's only when David raises the subject of how they're getting to the restaurant, prompting him to volunteer to drive, that she acknowledges he's still in the room. "We can take my car."

Three heads turn to look at him, surprised, but it's Mary Margaret who voices what they're obviously thinking. "Are you _sure_?"

He knows there's no malicious intent in her words, but he still feels their subtle sting. Of course it's not like him. He's usually the one lingering at the table, long after the wait staff clearly wish to close up for the night, trying to convince everyone to sing sea shanties. "I've been imbibing a little too much even for my tastes lately, love." He grabs his car keys from the coffee table, then checks his pockets for his wallet and phone, more to give himself something to do that doesn't involve trying to catch Emma's eye. "I'm more than content to be the sober chauffer this evening."

David claps his hands together, obviously growing weary of the dithering taking place. "Excellent. Let's go."

Emma ends up in the front passenger seat beside him by default, their resident lovebirds staking their claim to the back seat as soon as they reach his car. "You realise it's your job to choose the music, Swan," he tells her as he puts the car into reverse, having finally torn his gaze away from the way the skirt of her dress slithers over hers knees as she crossed her legs. "With the front seat comes great responsibility."

"You are such a geek," she mutters, rolling her eyes at his superhero reference, but he sees the corners of her rose-coloured mouth lift in a quick smile. "Don't suppose you have any CDs from _this_ decade in the car?"

He flashes her a grin, feeling something palpable click into place when she actually meets his gaze. "Not as such, no."

With that, she presses the button for the radio, and the car fills with trance (or whatever the hell it's called now, he thinks) music. From the backseat, he hears David laugh. "You think he's bad now. In college, he used to force me to listen to all his brother's 1970's vinyls."

"It's bad form to insult the designated driver, mate," Killian shoots back in a mild tone. "Otherwise you might send him straight to the depths of a bottle, and then when would you all be?"

He feels the soft patting of a small hand on his shoulder, then Mary Margaret's soothing voice. "He's only teasing you. You know how children are on the playground. Always chasing and pinching the people they _really_like because they don't know any other way of showing their affection."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Emma stiffen, and the tender spot on his ribcage suddenly feels like it's glowing. To his relief, David saves him from answering by pouncing on his girlfriend's turn of phrase, laughter threaded through his words. "Hang on. Are you implying that you think I'm interested in Killian, or that I have the maturity level of a fifth grader?"

Killian hears a soft, feminine chuckle from the backseat. "Of course not, darling. You're at a seventh grade level at least."

The voices from the backseat drop to a low, intimate murmur, and beside him Emma sighs. Obviously deciding he's the lesser of two evils, she finally addresses him directly. "Well, you might not be drinking tonight, but I'm definitely ready for a large glass of wine." She chances a look into the backseat, then quickly turns around again. "Or two."

"Not exactly your ideal double-date then, Swan?" The fact that he doesn't want to bite his tongue after dangling such an inappropriate line in front of her should worry him, but he's decided that he may as well go the masochistic route and enjoy the torture that lies in wait for him.

"This is _not_ a date."

Beneath the irritation, there's a pleading note in her voice, and he immediately regrets pushing her. "It was just a joke, Swan."

"Save your breath, okay?" Chancing a glance sideways, he sees that she's gripping the purse in her lap tightly, her fingers pale against the black leather. "I'm not in the mood."

It seems his teasing has negated any good that her run with Mary Margaret managed to accomplish. "My apologies, love."

In answer, she reaches down and turns up the volume on the car stereo, drowning out the murmured conversation from the backseat and anything else _he _might say. He grins, keeping his gaze on the road ahead, Mary Margaret's words about chasing and pinching echoing pleasantly in his head.

* * *

><p>The restaurant is crowded, but thanks to David's charming telephone manner when he'd called earlier, they're immediately whisked away to a table next to a large picture window overlooking the water. To her disconcertion, Killian neatly side-steps the waiter to pull her chair out for her, then looks at her expectantly. She feels her eyes narrow without her even having to try, but he just smiles at her.<p>

_So_, she thinks, _it's going to be like that, is it?_

Taking her cue from Mary Margaret, Emma smiles back at him. "Why,_thank you_, kind sir."

He blinks, and she mentally notches up a point for herself.

She ends up sitting across from Killian and next to David. As they settle themselves, Killian waves his hand at David. "Nice work with the table, mate," he tells him, and David beams.

"Not too bad for such short notice, right?"

Emma watches them, wondering if she gets that goofy look on her face every time Killian says something nice to _her_, then reaches for the wine list. Maybe a glass of Sauvignon Blanc will help her forget the way his knuckles, warm and rough, had brushed against her bare skin when he'd fixed her zipper.

The goosebumps that had skittered over her skin had been bad enough, but that fleeting touch had made her _yearn_ in a way she'd almost forgotten was possible. Painfully conscious that her nipples had drawn up tight and hard, pushing against the silk of her favourite black bra, she'd had to fight the impulse to fold her arms across her chest. As soon as he'd finished zipping her up, she'd fled (there's no other word for it, she admits that now) to her room with barely a grunt of thanks.

And now he's sitting across from her, looking as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. He's wearing his usual black, close-fitting trousers with a black shirt, sleeves rolled up and enough buttons undone at the neck for her to be able to see his silver Celtic pendant, gleaming brightly against the dark hair on his chest. It's just enough of a glimpse to remind her that she'd seen much more of him only a few hours earlier, and she feels a ripple of heat slide down her spine.

She knows she's playing with fire simply by being here, but she tells herself she can handle it. Inappropriate lust aside, these people are her closest friends, and she wants to enjoy this time together. _ At least she won't have to deal with any awkward conversations about moving house tonight,_ she thinks, and yet another flicker of disloyalty dances through her at the realisation that she hasn't thought of Walsh for hours. Maybe it's because he still hasn't bothered to reply to the text messages she sent him after her shower. Or maybe, she thinks, watching Killian's arm muscles flex as he leans across the table to hand the wine list to David, there's a very different reason.

_Crap._

Maybe_ two_ glasses of Sauvignon Blanc will do the trick.

For a place that's only just opened, the service is on point, and their drinks order is taken quickly and cheerfully. She finds herself biting back a smile when Killian orders a club soda, despite his obviously longing look at the selection of top-shelf rum listed just below the non-alcoholic beverages. Glancing up, he catches her watching him, and gives her a wink. "Man of my word, Swan."

"That's not what Jane said when she stormed out of our apartment three weeks ago," Mary Margaret teases, and a dull flush creeps up his neck.

"She felt I'd reneged on a promise to go a hiking weekend with her, which was patently untrue," he mutters, studying the menu with exaggerated care. "I never promised any such thing, of course, but I'm afraid we had to agree to disagree on that one."

"Poor girl," Emma hears herself say, and he looks up from the menu to pin her in place with a steady blue stare.

"Why makes you say that, Swan?"

Suddenly feeling as though she's on the witness stand, Emma fights the urge to squirm in her seat. She can feel David and Mary Margaret looking back and forth between the two of them with interest, just like they had in the kitchen this afternoon, and knows she has to cut this conversation off at the legs, so to speak. "Trying to argue with a lawyer talk during a break up? She never stood a chance."

He grins at her. "Just as well you're not dating a lawyer then, isn't it?"

Before she can volley back a snappy answer (or start coming up with one, to be honest), Mary Margaret swoops in and saves her. "So, what's everyone ordering?"

For a few blissful moments, she discusses the menu with the other woman, ignoring the other conversation happening at the table, which seems to be about football and maybe upgrading their cable package in the apartment. Her stomach rumbling, Emma chews on her bottom lip as she narrows down her options to two choices, then looks at her friend. "I _really_ want those garlic shrimp, but-"

"Go for it." Mary Margaret winks at her. "Walsh is working tonight, so it's not as though you have to worry about kissing anyone."

Their table suddenly rocks, making their thankfully still-empty wine glasses wobble on their stems. Across from her, Killian scratches the back of his neck, looking sheepish. "Sorry, I crossed my legs and kicked the table."

"See, this is why we usually stick to burger joints," David drawls as a waiter arrives with their drink order, and Killian gives him an offended look across the table.

"Are you saying I'm not fit to be let out into polite society?"

David holds up his hands in mock surrender. "You said it, not me."

The waiter distributes their drinks, putting club soda in front of both Killian and Mary Margaret, then making a point of showing the wine bottle to both Emma and David. _Nothing like gender equality when it comes to wine snobbery_, she thinks with amusement, then leaves it to David to go through the usual ritual of tasting and giving the expected thumbs up.

(Walsh sends back bottles of wine on a regular basis, something that never fails to make her feel as though she should apologise to the waiter - _but _you_ordered that particular bottle, aren't you only supposed to send it back if it's got bits of cork floating in it? - _and he always just smiles at her as though he could explain, but she still wouldn't understand.)

The waiter fills Emma and David's wineglasses, then plunges the bottle into a silver bucket with a loud crunching of ice. Across from her, Killian picks up his glass of club soda, and waggles his damned eyebrows at her. "Not a mason jar in sight," he murmurs in a soft voice she _knows_ is directed solely at her, and she subdues the urge to press the heel of her stiletto down on the toe of his boot, because that would just be asking for trouble, really.

Their waiter reappears to take their order, and Killian and David immediately engage the man in an intense conversation regarding numerous appetizers and the seafood platter for two as entree. Mary Margaret rolls her eyes at Emma as the friendly debate becomes more and more animated (_lobster is miles ahead of crab, mate, trust me_), and Emma grins.

"Now I remember why we stopped going out to dinner in a group," she tells her friend in a stage whisper, and the other woman laughs.

"Hey, if it means I'm off the hook when it comes to sharing that ginormous platter with David, I can put up with a little carry-on."

Almost in defiance, Emma orders the garlic shrimp (although to whom she's trying to make a point, she's not quite sure) then teases Mary Margaret about being predictable. "Clam chowder? Again? Really?"

Her friend is unapologetic. "I like the crackers."

"Gotta love a woman who knows what she likes." Half-rising in his chair, David leans across the table and kisses his girlfriend soundly, as if he couldn't wait another moment to remind her that he thinks she's perfect. Shaking her head, Emma reaches for her glass of wine, her gaze meeting Killian's across the table.

"You'd think the honeymoon phase would be over by now," she mutters, and again those dark eyebrows arch.

"Some people are simply more romantic than others, love." He leans back in his seat, drumming on the table with the fingers of his right hand, his eyes never leaving hers. "But you'd know all about that, what with your man Walsh and all those flowers he used to send you."

Maybe she will crunch his toes with her heel, after all. Mary Margaret often buys flowers at the farmer's market, and Emma had been hoping that no one would notice that_ her_ contribution to the floral content of their apartment had petered out. Obviously, that was too much to ask. "If you must know, Itold Walsh to stop sending them to me."

Like an impulse trigger, the mention of flowers has Mary Margaret suddenly tuning into their conversation. "Why?" She looks disappointed. "They were always so pretty."

"And so plentiful," Killian adds in a mild tone that doesn't fool Emma for a second. "Odd how they always mysteriously ended up in the rubbish bin, though."

She levels a heated glare at him, but his serene expression doesn't change._Bastard. _

"Well, call me crazy," Emma tells Mary Margaret, deliberately turning a shoulder in Killian's direction, "but I don't really enjoy flowers when they're an apology."

"That's not crazy at all." Sympathy flashes in the other woman's eyes. "That's the sanest thing I've heard all day," she reassures Emma, and turns to wag a stern finger at both men. "Let that be a valuable lesson, boys. Don't send apology flowers because there's only one place they'll end up."

David makes some crack about his own flower-buying track record, and Emma turns back to Killian, knowing she can't spend the rest of the evening pretending he's not there. "By the way, that's trash can, _mate_," she tells him. "Not rubbish bin."

He grins, his eyes brightening with amusement. "What would I do without you, Swan?"

And just like that, just when she thought maybe she could get through tonight without him making her feel restless and uncertain, she's right back to wondering what the _hell_ it is that they think they're doing, because her pulse is suddenly racing, her stomach flipping over in a way that's got nothing to do with hunger. She knows she's put herself in this situation, but she almost _hates _him for messing with her head to the point where she can't stop thinking about what it would be like to kiss him.

_I hate you sometimes._

For the third time in as many days, the words pop up like a freaking jack-in-a-box in her head, pushing her into the 'officially confused as all hell' zone. Grabbing her napkin off her lap, she picks up her purse, knowing she's running away but beyond caring. "Excuse me, will you?" She pushes back her chair, then looks at both men in turn. "If those appetisers arrive while I'm in the bathroom, don't you two _dare_ scoff the lot of them, you hear me?"

She receives two identically injured expressions in return as Mary Margaret rises to her feet as well, smiling. "You know the rules, Emma," she teases. "I'm duty bound to come with you."

"No, it's fine, you don't have to-" Emma assures her, but the protest falls on deaf ears. A moment later, she and Mary Margaret are in the newly finished powder room, where Emma goes through the charade of using the facilities (why else would she want to come in here?) while her friend chatters about how nice the restaurant is and how glad she is that the four of them were all free on the same night. Eventually she notices a distinct lack of response on Emma's part, and her dark eyebrows drawn up in a frown.

"Hey, are you okay?"

In the middle of running cool water over her wrists (anything to stop her from feeling as though she's running a temperature) Emma smiles at Mary Margaret's reflection in the large mirror. "I'm great, why?"

"I hate to pry, but did you and Killian have a fight?" Concern is etched on her friend's face. "Things seem a little weird between you two."

This is her chance to come clean, but Emma has the feeling that baring her soul before they've even had appetisers might not be the best timing she's ever had. Besides, what the hell would she even say? _Oh, I've been in love with him for years, but clearly he never felt the same way, so I just learned to deal with it, but over the last few days something's changed and he's looking at me as though he's _waiting _on me, and I have no idea what's going on, only that I feel like I've skipped a couple of chapters in a book and lost track of the plot somehow._

"We had a misunderstanding earlier." Turning off the tap, she goes in search of the hand dryer. "We worked it out, though."

"That's a relief." Mary Margaret inspects her already perfect lipstick, then touches the tip of her pinkie finger to the corner of her mouth. "The four of us should do this more often. You know, I had my doubts when David offered Killian the last bedroom at the start of the year, but it's worked out just fine."

"Why, because he's a smart-assed divorce lawyer?"

Mary Margaret grins. "No, because I thought it might be awkward, what with him wanting to ask you out when we were at college."

Emma stares at her friend as the hand dryer cuts out, making the silence even more deafening. _Black is white, night is day,_ she thinks dazedly, _and apparently Killian Jones wanted to ask her out when they were in college. _"What are you talking about?"

"Gosh, I've never told you this story?" The other woman's tone is casual, as though they're just discussing the weather, as though Emma's heart isn't suddenly racing a freaking gazillion miles an hour. "That day at the coffee shop on campus, when I first introduced you to David. Killian was there, remember?"

Emma remembers. She remembers every single thing about those two hours she'd spent in Killian's company that day. "Yeah, I guess."

Mary Margaret rummages in her purse, coming up with a travel-sized bottle of the perfume she'd put on before they left home tonight. "Well, you know how guys are." She lightly spritzes her modestly-exposed cleavage before slipping the bottle back into her purse. "When you left the table to visit the bathroom, he asked me if you were seeing anyone."

Emma says nothing. She's officially speechless. Mary Margaret is happy to keep talking, though, and doesn't seem to notice that her audience is basically gobsmacked. "Of course, I told him you were dating Neal and it was pretty serious, then he made some joke about always being in the wrong place at the wrong time and not to bother telling you he'd asked, as you'd only feel sorry for him, I think were his words." She smooths her hands over her sleek black hair, then grins at Emma's reflection in the mirror. "He seemed to get over it pretty quickly, now that I think about it, with all those girls he dated in college."

Emma makes a sound with her mouth that manages to pass as a word. "Uh-huh."

"It was a nice change this morning not to have to make awkward conversion with a strange woman in our kitchen, don't you think?" Mary Margaret rolls her eyes at Emma, who offers her a weak smile. "I doubt he's actually decided to settle down, though. He's probably just having a quiet weekend."

Right now, Emma couldn't give a damn about the lack of a willowy brunette at their kitchen table this morning (actually, she does, but that's a whole other issue). "Why the hell didn't you ever tell me?"

Mary Margaret shrugs. "I don't know. He asked me not to. Besides, he was just one of dozens of guys who asked me if you were single every time you were out of earshot."

She thinks of how David had laughed when she'd told him that she wasn't Killian's type. "Does David know about this?"

"I don't think so. He was at the counter ordering our coffees when Killian asked about you." She curls her arms through Emma's. "What does it matter now? It was years ago. Come on, our dates will be wondering where we are."

She knows Mary Margaret is just joking, but the words still come out in a sharp rush. "I'm _not_ on a date."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, I was only teasing." Her friend squeezes her arm. "I know you'd never do anything like that to Walsh."

_Oh, God._

Feeling like she's sleepwalking, she follows the other woman back to their table to find their appetisers waiting, untouched by human hands, both men looking as though they're waiting to be praised for their restraint. As they take their seats, David tops up both wine glasses, then looks at Mary Margaret. "Remind me to call the super in the morning, okay? Killian was just telling me that the exhaust in the main bathroom is broken again."

Mary Margaret frowns. "Again?"

"Dead as a dodo, I'm afraid." He looks across the table at Emma, his half-empty glass of club soda raised in a toast. "Isn't that right, Swan?"

"Hey, tempura shrimp," she announces as she studies at the appetisers they'd ordered to share, pointedly ignoring both Killian and the way her breath seems to be snagging in her chest. "I call first dibs on those."

Somehow, she gets through the evening. She smiles and talks and nods in all the right places (she thinks) and drinks the lion's share of the bottle of wine. Finally, after watching David and Mary Margaret share an obscenely large dessert involving brownies and salted caramel, it's time to call for the check and get the hell out of Dodge. _Except,_ she thinks in faint despair, _going home isn't an escape, just a change of venue. _

David insists on picking up the check, jokingly telling Killian not to expect any grocery money this week, and waves away Emma's attempt to chip in. "You can spring for burritos next week," he tells her with a grin, and she can't help smiling. He's old-fashioned and a little over-protective, but she's very glad he's in her life.

Killian's behind her as they walk down the three steps from the restaurant entrance to the sidewalk, and maybe it's just her imagination, but she would swear she feels the brush of his hand against the small of her back. She looks over her shoulder at him - she can't help it – but he's a respectable distance behind her, his hands shoved into the pockets of his black trousers. He doesn't look at her, and she tells herself that she's glad he seems to have decided to ease up on trying to push every single button she possesses.

The trip home is much quieter. Once again, Mary Margaret and David commandeer the backseat, and Emma resigns herself to another twenty minutes of banter that will leave her feeling off-kilter and blushing. To her surprise, Killian merely flicks on the radio as soon as they're on the road, tuning it to a retro station she knows is one of his favourites. As David Bowie's voice fills the car, he taps his fingers on the steering wheel, humming under his breath and making no effort at conversation.

She should be glad, right?

Once they've reached home, Mary Margaret groans as she climbs from the car. "God, I feel like I could sleep for a week." She taps her boyfriend accusingly on the arm. "Why did you let me order that dessert?"

David smiles as he presses a kiss to the top of her dark head. "Because I'm a smart man who knows it's not his place to tell you _not_ to order dessert, my love."

Emma trails after them as they head into their apartment building, feeling like a tired child following her parents after an outing. Killian waves them all into the elevator when it arrives, and presses the button for their floor, all without saying a word. Just as Emma has the thought that this is the longest she's known him to go without opening his mouth, he leans back against the mirrored wall of the elevator, his arms folded across his chest. "How were the garlic shrimp?"

"Great." She leans against the opposite wall, forcing herself to hold his gaze. "How was that giant mountain of sea fodder you and David consumed?"

"Outstanding."

He grins at her as the elevator doors open, his eyes warm, and the tension pulling tight at the back of her neck and across her shoulders suddenly seems to ease. Once again she trails after Mary Margaret and David towards their apartment door, but this time Killian is trudging beside her, his shoulder brushing against hers. He nods at the couple ahead of them, one dimple flashing in his bearded cheek as he grins. "Should we thank Mum and Dad for taking us out for tea?"

She almost trips over the pointed toes of her stilettos. He's mirrored her own thoughts so exactly that she's tempted to ask him when he took up mind-reading as a hobby. "Maybe not. They might ground us for being fresh."

He raises his eyebrow at the mention of the word _fresh_ but thankfully says nothing as they file into their apartment, switching on lights and shrugging off coats. Mary Margaret pauses long enough to wave at them before heading towards the master bedroom, her eyelids practically drooping. "Sorry, guys, I'm beat. See you tomorrow."

After a smile for Emma and a quick aside to Killian about recording the rugby that's playing in the middle of the night (the game is apparently happening in another hemisphere, go figure), David follows in her wake, already yawning.

"I'd forgotten what party animals they were," she murmurs, and behind her Killian laughs as he turns on the television and starts fiddling with the TiVo settings.

"Give me a second to sort this out, love, and I'll make you that cup of tea I promised earlier."

Emma kicks off her heels with relief, pressing her bare feet flat against the floorboards with a sigh. Catching sight of his grin, she shoots Killian a defensive look. "What?"

He's looking at the television screen now, but she can still feel the weight of his attention. "With those killer shoes on, I'd almost forgotten how wee you are, Swan."

"Bite me." He opens his mouth, his eyes gleaming with obvious intent, and she holds up one hand in warning. "_Don't._"

Shrugging, he goes back to programming the TiVo, still smirking, and she decides that filling and turning on the kettle is as good a reason as any to put some space between them. Thanks to their grocery shopping efforts, there is a new container of milk and a new packet of teabags, along with a packet of sugar cubes that he'd insisted on putting in the cart, ridiculous person that he is.

(He'd made vague noises in the store about buying loose leaf tea as well, but seeing as they don't own a teapot, she'd managed to talk him out of it.)

Her phone buzzes on the counter as she's opening the new packet of teabags. It's a text from Walsh, and she's _not_ a fan of the strange hollow sensation that carves out her insides at the sight of his name.

_Good evening, sweetheart. Hope you had a good night with your friends. So sorry I couldn't be there. Silver lining is that meetings went very well – two new supply contracts! Have to be in the store tomorrow morning to meet a rep from that new interior design place on 3__rd__, but should be finished by noon. Let me buy you lunch? Miss you, love you, see you tomorrow? W_

She doesn't reply. _Later,_ she tells herself, and pushes her phone aside, as if that might help simplify her life. Wishful thinking, of course, because she's never felt more disorganised in the emotional department in her life.

By the time Killian joins her in the kitchen, the kettle is boiled and she's unearthed both their favourite mugs, and he seems disappointed that she's done most of the work. "I thought _I _was making this cup of tea, Swan."

"Don't worry, I left the fiddly bit for you," she tells him, heading for the high cupboard where they usually stash any treats, as Mary Margaret likes to call them, grinning when she finds the packets of chocolate cookies that had been such a hot topic in the grocery store earlier that day. She'd forgotten all about them, but in her defence, she _has_ had three glasses of wine. "Look what I found."

"Hands off, Swan." She looks up to find him shaking his head at her as he pours boiling water into their mugs. "We had an agreement, remember?" He points the teaspoon at the packet in her hand. "Those are _mine_."

"Is that right?" Holding his gaze with hers, she tears open one end of the packet slowly, deliberately, enjoying the muscle flickering in his jaw. "So I guess you don't want me doing _this_." She pulls out the plastic tray holding the cookies, grinning when he takes a step towards her. "You really think you can take me, Jones?"

His eyes darken, and too late she realises what she's said. "On a good day, when you're at the top of your game? Absolutely not." He takes another step towards her, his gaze sweeping over her, fluttering against her skin like warm silk. "You can talk the talk all you like tonight, love, but I think you're forgetting something very important."

Her hand tightens around the packet in her hand. "And what's that?"

He smiles then, a lazy curving of his lips, and later she realises she should have seen it for the warning signal it was. "_I _was the designated driver."

He moves much faster than she anticipated, seeming to land beside her in two long strides, and she bites back a laughing shriek as he makes a grab for the cookie packet. "You wouldn't be so sure of yourself if I had my cuffs," she pants furiously, ducking under his arm and making it halfway across the kitchen before she feels his hands on her waist, pulling her backwards and spinning her around.

"If you had your cuffs, darling," he shoots back, grinning as he slides his hand down her arm, his fingers closing over the cookie packet and half-tugging it out of her grip, "this would be even more fun."

_Oh, God. _She tries to tug her hand out of his grasp, pulling them both off balance in the process, the packet of cookies flying out of their entangled hands as they stumble backwards. Her ass hits the edge of the kitchen counter, his hands suddenly bracing on either side of her hips, his body pinning hers in place. She's not laughing anymore and neither is he, and suddenly she can hardly breathe. His mouth is only a whisper away from her lips, his body hard and warm against hers. Arousal is thrumming through her blood and her skin, unfurling low in her belly, because she wants this more than she's wanted _anything_ in a very long time.

His gaze burns into hers, urgently searching her face, and again she has the feeling that he's waiting on her. "Emma-"

She wants to kiss him.

She can't.

Putting both hands on his chest (his shirt does nothing to stop the heat of his skin warming her palms), she gently pushes him away. He steps back instantly, putting at least two feet between them. "This has to stop." She gestures between them (_fuck_, her hands are shaking), her voice cracking. "We can't keep doing this, whatever the hell this is."

He looks stricken, almost embarrassed, and he moves slowly towards her, his voice gentle. "Perhaps if we talked about it-"

"I don't think talking is going to help." She slides sideways, almost stepping on the fucking cookie packet as she steps away. "Look, I'm not saying I've never thought about it, about you and me, because I have, but I just _can't_." To her horror, her eyes blur, but she keeps going, because she has to get this out in the open before it festers and eats away at her. "I won't do that to Walsh."

At the mention of Walsh's name, something changes in his face. His expression smooths out, his jaw tightening. He nods as he takes one step back from her, then another. "Message received and understood, love."

His tone is painfully polite, and it's almost enough to crack her heart in two. "Killian-" She wants to tell him that she can't bear to lose him, that she needs him in her life, and if they mess up what they already have, it will ruin everything.

She doesn't get the chance.

His soft smile does nothing to counter the regret in his eyes, and the crack in her heart widens a little more. "Goodnight, Swan." He walks out of the kitchen and down the hallway without looking back, and the quiet _click_ of his bedroom door shutting sounds like a gunshot in the silent apartment.


	6. Chapter 6

Perhaps it's because he's never usually stone-cold sober when he programs this wretched device, but he's never before had so much trouble bending the TiVo to his will. Or perhaps, he thinks as he glances down the hallway to the kitchen, he's simply distracted by the thought of Emma waiting for him to make her a cup of tea.

Clearly, he needs help, and not just with the bloody TiVo.

He finally gets the sodding mechanical beast under control, no doubt earning him a gold star from the other male in the house tomorrow, and makes his way to the kitchen. He can smell the faint scent of steam from the kettle (they seem to be making a habit of convening in steamy rooms today) and shakes his head teasingly at her. "I thought _I _was making this cup of tea, Swan."

She wrinkles his nose at him. "Don't worry, I left the fiddly bit for you," she reassures him, making him grin. _Hardened bail bondswoman, creeped out by used tea bags, _he thinks, his grin widening. If she would just let him him buy some real loose leaf tea, then they wouldn't have this issue.

He would like very much another moment to admire the curve of Emma's arse as she leans on the kitchen counter, dropping a tea bag into two mugs in turn, but she's already on the move, crossing the room to open one of the cupboard doors. He tears his gaze away from the sway of her hips and the way the skirt of her dress rides up to show her knees as she grabs something from the cupboard shelf (the act of pouring boiling water doesn't make allowances for such gawking), then he hears her make a unmistakable sound of triumph.

"Look what I found."

She's holding a packet of the chocolate biscuits he'd insisted on putting in their cart at the market earlier today, and the impulse to tease her is impossible to ignore. "Hands off, Swan."

She looks up at him, green eyes wide, and he shakes his head at her. "We had an agreement, remember?" A frown tugs between her eyebrows, and he uses the teaspoon he's holding to gesture towards her ill-gotten bounty. "Those are _mine_."

Her frown vanishes, replaced by a smirk that makes his pulse quicken. "Is that right?" Her eyes never leave his face as she rips into the biscuit packet, her hand movements slow and faintly suggestive. _God help him. _"So I guess you don't want me doing _this_."

Another flash of her long, pale fingers and the biscuits are half-out of their plastic covering, and he can no more resist the challenge than he could ever resist anything this woman demands of him. She purses her lips when he takes a step towards, her gaze dropping to his foot as if daring it to repeat the motion. "You really think you can take me, Jones?"

He _definitely _needs help, because her words have just taken him straight to the depths of the gutter and he's not sure he cares. "On a good day, when you're at the top of your game?" He lets himself eye her up and down, knowing full well that her demure dress is hiding a cool hunter's mind and a killer right hook. "Absolutely not." Another step, and she doesn't exactly back up, but there's a wariness in her eyes now, and he knows she's frantically cataloguing all her escape routes. "You can talk the talk all you like tonight, love, but I think you're forgetting something very important."

She grips her prize a little more tightly, the sound of crinkling plastic filling the room. "And what's that?"

He smiles at her, knowing he's playing with fire, knowing he doesn't give a damn. "_I _was the designated driver."

He _almost_ manages to take her by surprise, fleetingly getting his hand on the packet she's clutching. She's obviously determined not to give it up without a fight, and that only makes everything more dangerous.

"You wouldn't be so sure of yourself if I had my cuffs." With this breathless declaration, she manages to slip past him, and he reacts instinctively.

(At least, that's his excuse, an excuse over which he will brood much later.)

Trying and failing not to imagine her snicking those handcuffs of hers around his wrists, he reaches out and grabs her by the hips as she flees, his fingertips sinking into intriguingly soft curves as he hauls her backwards, his feet braced on the kitchen floor. "If you had your cuffs, darling," he manages to say as he tells himself that he's simply doing this to liberate his expensive chocolate biscuits. Knowing _that _argument would be thrown out of even the most gullible of courtrooms, he keeps his left hand on her hip as he runs his right down her arm, grinning as he finally manages to grab his quarry, "this would be even more fun."

She stiffens against him, the swell of her arse almost brushing against his zipper, and he sucks in a ragged breath. In the next heartbeat, she rips her hand out of his grasp, and his centre of gravity is suddenly compromised, his feet stumbling awkwardly as she twists, her shoulder thumping into the middle of his chest. He hears the packet of biscuits hit the ground, but he doesn't give a damn, because they've somehow ended up against the kitchen counter, still entangled, his hips pressed into hers, her breasts flush against his chest.

_Fuck._

He's beyond help now.

Her lips are sinfully close to his, the memory of that kiss (_God_, the taste of her, the soft moan that had hummed in her throat) consuming him, churning through his blood until he's not sure _how_ he's stopping himself from covering her mouth with his.

Her breath is coming just as hard and fast as his, both of them far more winded than their fleeting tussle warrants. She stares up at him, her eyes dark, her rose-coloured lips parted on silent words he would give everything he owned to hear her speak.

_Please remember,_ he begs her silently. Please_ remember how you feel._

She says nothing, her expression caught between panicked and _hopeful,_damn her, and he can no longer hold his tongue. "Emma-"

Her hands are suddenly flat on his chest, and he obeys the silent request instantly, because he wants, _needs _this to be on her terms. She looks at him with glittering eyes, and he sees her swallow hard. "This has to stop."

His heart sinks like a stone, and he wants to speak, but the words don't come.

When he says nothing, she shakes her head, flicking her hand between them, her gaze shifting away from his. "I can't keep doing this, whatever the hell this is."

His face grows hot at the faint accusation in her voice, the back of his neck prickling madly. _Now. Tell her now. _ "Perhaps if we talked about it-"

"Talking isn't going to help." She slips away, leaving his body mourning the loss of contact more than he would have thought possible. "I'm not saying I've never thought about it, about you and me, because I have, but I just_can't_." He stares at her, each one of her words like a hammer on a bruise, the tiny sliver of hope gleaming brightly before being dashed to the rocks. Her eyes fill with tears, and she blinks almost angrily. "I won't do that to Walsh."

The sound of the other man's name is like a claxon in his ears. She might want to sleep with _him_, but she's still in a relationship with Walsh and apparently has no intention of changing that particular status quo. She couldn't have made her feelings on their current dilemma more clear if she'd scrawled them in cold tea across the kitchen wall, and the fact that he loves her all the more for her determination to be true to Walsh is of no comfort. He nods, suddenly very badly needs to be in a room that doesn't contain Emma Swan. "Message received and understood, love."

Her face falls, her nose scrunching as her eyes brim with tears. "Killian-"

If he stays here a second longer, he won't be able to stop himself from comforting her. There are times, he thinks as he swallows down the lump in his own throat, when self-preservation has to take precedence over chivalry. "Goodnight, Swan."

The silence from the kitchen behind him as he walks away is deafening, and the part of him that still _hoped_ withers with each step he takes.

_Fool, _he berates himself as he shuts his bedroom door and leans against it, forehead pressed hard against the cool wood as if that might stop the furious churning of his thoughts. _What were you expecting? That she'd come after you? Tell you she's changed her mind?_

Feeling as though he's literally sporting a dark cloud above his head, he changes into his usual t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, throwing his clothes carelessly onto the chair in the corner of his room. Normally (much to his housemates' collective teasing delight) he would take great care in hanging and folding, but tonight, he couldn't give a toss. Neither does he give a damn about washing his face or cleaning his teeth, not if it means he has to endure another awkward encounter with Emma. After scrounging in his top drawer, he pops a mint and flops onto his bed, praying for sleep to claim him quickly. Anything to stop him thinking about what's just happened.

Sleep, it appears, is busy elsewhere.

He can't stop himself from replaying every moment of the last few days, from that drunken kiss through to the instant Emma looked him in the eye and told him that she wasn't choosing him. When he then moves onto overanalysing every single word they've exchanged since Thursday evening, he knows he can lie here and slowly go mad, or he can do something else.

For one, their wifi is cooperative (perhaps it senses that tonight he's fully prepared to rip its little cord out of the wall and break it over his knee) and soon he's scrolling disinterestedly through his emails. One of his rugby mates has sent him a particularly filthy joke involving England's current captain, and he forwards it onto Liam. Two minutes later, a reply arrives from his brother.

**What a delightful limerick, and how kind of you to share it with me. I won't be able to get that mental image out of my head for months. How was dinner?**

_Enlightening._

**Details please.**

_Emma and I talked. Very briefly. She admitted there is something between us but made it quite clear she intends to stick with Monkey Boy._

**Hang on, she admitted she fancies you? That's good isn't it?**

_Wanting to shag someone doesn't mean true love._

**If she's been thinking about YOU, you git, that means she's not happy with HIM.**

_You've had too much of that energy drink, mate._

**Since when do you just give up when it comes to a woman?**

_When I know I'm making her unhappy._

**This is no time to be a gentleman, Killian.**

_On the contrary, it's the perfect time. _

**So let me guess, you're hiding out in your bedroom like a sulking teenager?**

_I'm TRYING to get some sleep, so now that you've had done the clichéd older brother spiel, perhaps I can do just that._

**Wanker.**

_Perhaps, but at least I'm not a pompous tosser. Give my love to the missus and the demon spawn._

**I will. Talk soon.**

Closing his laptop, he pushes it onto the empty side of his bed and scrubs his hands over his face. He certainly doesn't feel any better after the rapid fire email exchange with his brother, but he doesn't feel any worse. It's far from a win, but he'll take it.

(To be brutally honest, he's not sure it would be possible for him to feel worse.)

In the end, it seems as though he's barely fallen asleep before his alarm is beeping at him. He glares at his phone, wondering why the hell it's urging him to rise at six in the morning on a Sunday, then remembers that he'd planned to head into the office today. It suddenly seems like the best idea he's had in days. He doesn't know what Emma's Sunday plans might be, but he is in no mood to make uncomfortable conversation with her, especially if they have an audience. He never thought he'd be grateful for her memory lapse regarding their kiss, but he finds himself wishing now that he could erase last night's encounter from her mind.

It's early, and the apartment is silent and still as he makes his way from his room to the bathroom. Despite the lack of proper ventilation, he closes the door firmly behind him, getting through his usual morning ablutions in record time. Still, he checks for any signs of life as he emerges from the bathroom, because the last thing he wants right now is for Emma Swan to look at him with pity in her eyes.

He's going to have to move out of the apartment.

A sour knot forms in his stomach at the thought, and he pushes it to the back of his head as he dresses quickly. It's the most obvious solution to having to creep about his own home in order to avoid a woman, the most sensible thing for both of them. As he's thought many a time, however, his common sense seems to always be in short supply when it comes to Emma Swan.

Scowling at his reflection in the small mirror above his dresser (he looks more than a little rough, and it's not just due to the lack of sleep), he grabs his wallet, keys and phone. As he slides the phone into his back pocket, he wonders if today will be the day that he'll be brave enough to delete that bloody photograph.

He suspects not.

* * *

><p>When she reaches blearily for her phone on the bedside table, it tells her it's almost ten. She has a brief moment of panic that it's Monday morning, mentally flipping backwards through what she remembers doing and eating and watching. It's Sunday, she reassures herself, only to hit a wall when she remembers exactly what her Saturday night entailed.<p>

To be honest, she liked it better when she thought it was Monday morning.

Rolling over, Emma curls the pillow around her head, as if that might stop her from remembering every little detail of one of the most painful conversations she's had in a long time, and she's had plenty of those.

_God, the way he'd looked at her._

She's had a few men tell her (jokingly and otherwise) that she's breaking their heart over the years, but she'd never actually believed herself capable of doing such a thing until last night.

Last night, after Killian had left her in the kitchen, she'd sunk down into the closest chair and closed her eyes, wanting to go after him, knowing she couldn't, hating herself for every word she'd said, hating herself for being so uncertain of her own heart.

She doesn't know how long she'd sat there before she'd finally got to her feet, but she does know that she'd walked through the rest of her evening as if in a dream. She'd poured their untouched tea down the sink, thrown the used teabags into the trash, then picked up the broken packet of cookies from the floor. It was only when she'd been wiping down the counter that she'd realised that she'd been trying to erase any evidence that their awful conversation had actually taken place.

When she'd finally slept, she'd dreamed about him, walking away from her in a dozen different ways, her voice dying in her throat as she tried to call out to him.

_Shit._

She pulls a long-sleeved t-shirt on over the tank she'd slept in, then runs her hands through her hair. She's pretty sure she looks like ten kinds of hell, but there's nothing she can do about that now. Sitting on the edge of her bed as she shoves her feet into her slippers, she tries to remember if Killian had mentioned what he was doing today. The thought of bumping into him in the hallway makes her insides curl, which is beyond ridiculous. He's been her friend forever, and they live under the same roof. They have to talk in order to work through this, she knows that, but right now, she's got nothing new to say.

She needs to think.

She needs to see Walsh.

And, before anything else, she needs coffee.

The thought of coffee instantly brings Killian to mind (hell, almost everything brings him to mind lately), and she takes a deep breath as she opens her bedroom door. If he's here, then she'll do everything she can to make sure it's not weird.

To her surprise (and relief), she can't smell even the faintest hint of coffee, which is very odd for a Sunday morning. Almost holding her breath, she makes her way to the bathroom, which is empty and cold, with no sign of it having been recently used. She doesn't go as far as to feel if his towel is damp. She's not that far gone.

Not yet, anyway.

She heads for the kitchen, the butterflies in the pit of her stomach increasing with every step she takes, but she needn't have worried, because Killian is nowhere to be seen. "Hey."

Mary Margaret smiles as she clears a space at the kitchen table beside her, pushing aside the magazine she's obviously been reading. "Morning, sleepyhead."

"Morning." A quick glimpse to her right tells her that the espresso machine isn't even turned on, let alone showing signs of pumping out caffeine. "Where are the guys?" She's shamelessly using David as a smokescreen, but no one else needs to know that.

Mary Margaret hides a yawn behind her hand before picking up a mug of what smells like Earl Grey tea. "David is out picking up a new carton of milk, and I don't know about Killian. He was gone when I got up at eight."

Emma seizes on the least stressful part of her friend's answer. "I thought we had milk."

The other woman gives her a fond smile that still manages to be a rebuke. "We did, but _someone _left it out on the counter top all night."

"Oh." Her face grows warm, remembering how she'd cleared everything away in a daze last night. "That was me, sorry."

Her friend smiles. "At least it wasn't pizza boxes this time. You and Killian didn't get into the vodka again last night, did you?"

"No, just tea." Crossing the kitchen to the espresso machine, Emma busies herself by turning it on and filling the water reservoir. She's just pouring coffee beans into the grinder when she hears the front door open and close, and braces herself. "I'm really sorry about the milk."

David sweeps into the kitchen, bringing the cool November morning air with him, newspaper tucked under his arm, plastic market bag in his hand. "So_you're_ the culprit," he says with a grin, pulling a new carton of milk out of the bag, as well as a slab of chocolate and a bag of corn chips. "I was all ready to send Killian a text lecturing him about the dire consequences of milk spoilage."

Mary Margaret laughs. "You would have been popular."

Emma eyes the other items on the kitchen counter. "I know it's Sunday, but isn't it a little early for all that stuff?"

David looks unrepentant. "I've got a football game to watch, and maybe where you come from, young lady, people watch football without snacks, but you're in my town now."

"God, you're an idiot." She hits the _on_ button on the coffee grinder, using the noise to screen out the sight of her two housemates kissing each other as if they'd been apart for a year instead of than less than an hour.

"Speaking of the game, where's Killian?" Mary Margaret has left the table to grab two coffee mugs from the cupboard, sliding across the counter top to where Emma is doing her best to steam the milk without burning her hand. "He won't be happy if you watch it without him."

To Emma's relief, David appear at her side, gently bumping her out of the way and taking the silver milk jug from her hand. "Keep doing it like that, and you'll turn it into custard again," he teases, but Emma's only too happy to let him take over. She can appreciate the art of making a perfect cup of coffee as much as the next person, but she's much more interested in drinking he damned thing. "Killian's gone into the office for the day, so I'm in the clear."

"Really? On a Sunday?" Mary Margaret looks at Emma, then at David before shaking her head. "I'm starting to think that we need to check him to make sure we're not dealing with an Invasion of the Body Snatchers kind of thing."

"He _has _been a little off his usual game lately, I admit." David looks at Emma, his eyebrows raised in an open invitation to contribute to the topic at hand. _Bastard._

"You know how busy his workload gets at this time of year," she hears herself say as she reaches for the coffee mug he's holding out to her. "All those parents bitching about access and visitation rights to their kids over Thanksgiving and Christmas." His back to Mary Margaret, David rolls his eyes but says nothing, and Emma jumps on the chance to change the subject. "So, what are you guys doing today?"

Mary Margaret tilts her head in David's direction as she heads back to the kitchen table. "Well, Prince Charming there is watching the game, and I'm catching up with some reading material for our field trip to the Old South Meeting House on Wednesday."

"The Boston Tea Party routine? Again?" Emma grins. "I would have thought you knew the blurb on that place back to front by now."

Her friend takes a long sip from her 'apple for teacher' mug. "Trust me, when it comes to field trips, I've learned that you can never be too prepared." She smiles at Emma. "What about you?"

Emma slides into the chair opposite Mary Margaret, carefully avoiding looking at David. "Lunch with Walsh."

"That sounds nice.

David clears his throat. "Maybe you should see if Walsh can join us next time we all go out to dinner."

Emma meets his gaze steadily, silently daring him to be more of an ass than he's already being. "Maybe."

Mary Margaret flicks through her home furnishings magazine, apparently oblivious to the silent war being waged over her head. "Oh, I don't know about that." She pauses on a double spread showing a renovated country-style kitchen. "I don't think Killian likes Walsh that much."

David eases himself into the chair beside his girlfriend, his tone that of a man who's seriously asking for a punch in the face. "I wonder why that is."

"You know Killian," Emma bites out with smiling teeth, "he's an enigma." She makes a show of checking the time on the large retro clock on the kitchen wall (Mary Margaret strikes again), then picks up her coffee. "I should get moving. I'll see you guys later, okay?"

"You want to catch a movie tonight? Mary Margaret is looking at her hopefully, which to Emma means only one thing. _Chick flick. _There's obviously a movie she wants to see that David, as charming as he is, can't quite bring himself to sit through.

Emma grins. Her romantic life might be on the fast track to becoming a train wreck, but she knows she'll never be able to shake these two. "I'll call you later."

Clutching her coffee, she escapes into her room, where she has to deal with the dilemma of dressing for her adopted city's wind chill factor. It's only the second week in November, but the weather app on her phone is predicting of a high (high, that's rich) of forty-five. _Only six weeks until Christmas,_Emma thinks with a sigh as she pulls her official 'winter' jacket from the cupboard for the first time. Maybe one year, she'll be organised enough to be somewhere hot on 25th December. Somewhere with blue water, white sand, drinks in hollowed out coconuts and no bullshit.

The mental picture of salt-water drenched black hair and bright blue eyes suddenly pops into her head, and she wants to smack herself.

_Stop. Just stop._

To make matters worse, she still has no idea what she's doing for the holidays. Kathryn's already offered to let her take some vacation days, but she's not in the mood to tag along with Mary Margaret and David when they head off to visit their mothers in turn (Ruth in Chicago for Thanksgiving, Ava in Maine for Christmas). For all his talk of moving in together, Walsh hasn't breathed a word about the upcoming holiday season, and Emma doesn't know if she's disappointed or relieved.

Maybe she could just laze around the apartment, watch dozens of DVD boxed sets and eat her own weight in turkey and candy canes.

(She tries not to let herself wonder what Killian is doing for the holidays. She fails.)

As always, the heat in the Bug takes forever to kick in, and she's literally pulling into a parking space a block away from Walsh's store before the hot air starts blowing on her feet. "Sometimes, I wonder why I bother," she mutters, then lovingly pats the steering wheel. The Bug might not have any fancy mod cons, but it's _hers,_ and once upon a time, this car was the only thing she had.

There are several Sunday morning browsers in Baum & Denslow when she pushes open the large glass entrance door. She's way too early, so she briefly joins them, wandering through the high shelves that have been carefully organised to look as haphazard as possible. She must be getting jaded, because she finds herself shaking her head over what some people will pay for seemingly battered old lamps and trunks.

_Bloody hipsters_.

Emma scowls, turning on her heel to make her way to the front desk. She might be here to have lunch with Walsh, but apparently Killian's still in her head.

Awesome.

She sees Walsh long before he sees her. He's standing outside the small glassed office at the back of the store, talking to a woman she doesn't know. She'd definitely remember meeting _her_, Emma thinks, taking in the combined impact of glossy red hair, hourglass figure and a face arresting enough to be on the cover of Vogue.

She hovers, a sudden sour feeling in the pit of her stomach. She's not a jealous person (well, hardly ever) but there's something weirdly intimate about their interaction, even if they _are_ standing a good two feet apart. The woman must be the interior designer from the new place on 3rd that he mentioned on Friday night, but they're chatting like old friends, rather than people who've just met.

Pulling her gaze away, she runs her finger over the ship's wheel propped up against the shelf beside her (over two hundred bucks for a 'distressed' piece of wood – she's starting to see Killian's point), and wonders just when she started projecting her own guilty conscience onto her boyfriend. Probably Friday morning in her kitchen, she thinks dully, when she'd realised that she wasn't over her idiotic crush on her single housemate in any way, shape or form.

_This is ridiculous_, she thinks. Smoothing her hands down the front of her black sweater, she casually strolls to where Walsh is talking to the woman. When she nears the front counter, he finally catches sight of her, his face creasing into a wide smile.

"Hey, sweetheart." If he's concerned about her finding him schmoozing a red-haired knockout, it doesn't sure. "I wasn't expecting you for another hour."

"I know," she tells him, letting her gaze drift sideways to his visitor just long enough to be polite rather than challenging. "I got everything done much faster than I expected this morning, so here I am."

Stepping away from the woman, he slides his arm around Emma's waist, pressing a warm kiss to her cheek. "And I am very happy to see you." Turning her around, he gestures towards the red-haired woman, who is watching them both with polite interest. "Emma, this is Zelena Mills."

Zelena Mills extends a pale, perfectly manicured hand. Her fingernails are emerald green, an exact match for her silk shirt. "Lovely to meet you, my dear."

"And you." Being called 'dear' by a woman who couldn't be more than five years older than her is kind of weird, but Emma lets it slide. By the sound of that accent, she muses, Zelena isn't from around these parts. "You're the new interior designer on 3rd?"

The other woman arches an auburn eyebrow in Walsh's direction. "I see my reputation has preceded me."

Walsh ducks his head, and Emma almost expects him to shuffle his feet in embarrassment. She looks at Zelena, hoping her smile doesn't look as forced as it feels. "Not really, that's pretty much all I know."

Zelena doesn't seem to be having any such trouble, her smile wide and sincere. "Well, I know all about you." Once again, she arches a perfect eyebrow at Walsh. "This one here hasn't stopped singing your praises all morning."

Emma tries not to frown, because Walsh discussing _her_ during a business meeting with someone he's only just met makes no sense. "That's very sweet of him, but I can't imagine it made for very riveting conversation."

The other woman pats Emma lightly on the forearm. "Oh, but that's where you're wrong." Perfect white teeth flash against her dark red lipstick as she smiles. "The life of a bail bondswoman sounds so much more exciting than anything that _I_ might get up to during my working day."

Okay, Emma decides, she's officially had enough of this weird conversation. "Trust me, it's not all it's cracked up to be." She looks at Walsh. "Why don't I meet you in the coffee shop and leave you two to finish up here?"

The words have barely left her mouth before Zelena is shaking her head apologetically and reaching for a long black coat that's draped over a nearby display table. "No need to do that, my dear, we're all done." She shrugs elegantly into her coat, her polished fingernails flashing against the dark wool. "I'll send you through those projected figures tomorrow, Walsh."

"The sooner we can get the ball rolling, the better." Walsh puts out his hand for Zelena to shake. For a split second, Emma sees confusion in the other woman's eyes, then it's gone, leaving her to wonder if she imagined it. "We'll talk soon."

"I'm sure we will." Zelena turns to Emma, still smiling. "I hope to see _you _again too, Emma."

_Not if I can help it_, Emma thinks churlishly, then gives the other woman a smile of her own. "Sounds great."

Zelena waves away Walsh's offer to walk her to the entrance of the store, and soon he and Emma are alone. Before she can say a word, he slips his arm around her shoulders and gives her a gentle hug. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't help myself. I really do tell everyone I met how amazing you are."

His preemptive apology takes some of the wind out of her sails, but not all of it. "Seriously? Even _I _wait a couple of weeks before telling people what I do for a living." She's very protective of Kathryn's reputation in the business, and loose chatter with the wrong people is just the sort of thing to compromise the integrity of their operation. "How long have you known her, anyway?"

Walsh gives her an easy smile, then nods to one of his passing employees, a young guy with dark hair and a vaguely familiar face. She must have seen him in here before, Emma thinks. "We've talked online and on the phone, but this morning was the first time in person."

That would explain the relaxed feel of their interaction, Emma reasons silently, but there's still something she can't shake, something she can't quite put her finger on. Then again, maybe it's just the oldest reason in existence - she's jealous of her boyfriend laughing and smiling with a beautiful woman from his own world. "She's quite something."

"Really?" Walsh shakes his head at her, slowly rubbing his hand up and down her back in a way that never fails to bring her shoulders down from her ears, as her third foster mother used to say. "Personally, I thought she was a little scary."

She laughs and, by the time they reach the entrance of the store, the tension across her shoulders has magically vanished, and she's more than ready to make up for skipping breakfast. Pushing open the door for her, Walsh turns to her, his boyish face lit up in a hopeful smile. "Do you forgive me for boasting about you to a complete stranger?"

She tucks her hand into the pocket of his overcoat. "You really think I'm amazing?"

He gently tugs the end of her braid. "Every day."

Emma's heart twinges. She desperately wants to be reminded of all the good things between them, and maybe this is a good place to start. "In that case, you can buy me lunch," she tells him, "and we'll call it even."

He curls his hand around her braid. "Are you _sure _you don't want to eat at my place?"

She looks at him. They haven't done more than _literally _sleep together for over a month, thanks to his tiredness, her period or mismatched schedules, all very normal reasons. Now he's gazing at her as though he wants to skip lunch and head straight to dessert, and suddenly it seems like a pretty good idea. She needs _something_ to ease the ridiculous tension that's scratching at her insides, and who better than the person who knows exactly what she likes? Ignoring the irritating little voice in her head that tells her she's kidding herself if she thinks this will solve anything, she smiles at him. "I guess I could be persuaded."

* * *

><p>Despite a decade spent wallowing the very depths of human treachery, it never fails to amaze Killian what people will say and do to someone that they once professed to adore. He skims through his initial consultation notes about a new client, a woman whose husband syphoned every cent from their joint bank account and moved to the other side of the world without so much as leaving her a note, remembering the shocked grief in the woman's voice as she'd poured her heart out to him. <em>I<em> _thought we were happy._

Perhaps the constant exposure to this kind of nonsense is the reason he's never felt the urge to legally bind himself to another person. Then again, perhaps it's because he found the one person who might inspire him to do such a thing years ago, but fate and timing had other ideas.

On his laptop screen to his right, he knows an open tab with his preferred real estate website is waiting for his consideration. He could be in a new place by Christmas (Thanksgiving would be pushing it, what with giving the others enough warning, he certainly owes them that much), and the thought is more depressing than he would have thought possible.

Despite the current complications, he's grown far too used to sharing a home with Emma Swan. The thought of coming home to an apartment without her in it is not a cheery one, but the alternative isn't tenable. Neither of them can carry on the way things are, and if one of them is going to vacate, it's going to be him. He knows her history perhaps better than anyone, and he would go to the ends of the earth to make sure she didn't have to leave yet another place she'd come to think of as home.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he dashes off a note to Ariel for Monday morning, giving her a brief rundown on what documents he needs prepared for this particular matter, then closes the file. He can feel his laptop practically humming with the unhappy promise of that sodding real estate site, and finally he spins his chair and pulls the computer towards him.

Perhaps he might just check his emails first, though.

The first ten are work-related, the next three from businesses hoping to help him with his penis size, and two from Nigerian princes hoping to send him buckets of money. He briefly considers forwarding the Viagra emails to the Nigerian princes (something on which to spend their hard-scrounged cash), then his eyes widen as he sees the sender of the most recent email.

It's from Jane (or, as Victor had taken to calling her, the Hiking Woman). The last time he'd seen her, she was storming out of the apartment after calling him several choice names, all of them related to his reluctance to take their relationship to another level and spend three days alone with her in the wilderness. Despite her angry departure, she was a lovely girl, and it certainly hadn't been her fault that there had been no real spark as far as he was concerned. As he'd told Victor, the sex had been perfectly fine, but when you start going to bed to cover up the fact that you've got nothing to say to one another, that's a problem.

There appears to be no angry words or emoticons in the subject heading, so he takes a chance and clicks it open.

_Hi Killian. I know The Rules say that I shouldn't email you, but I really want to apologise for ending things on such a bad note. I tend to assume too much too quickly, and I'm just sorry we got our wires crossed so badly. If you're free, let me buy you a drink next Saturday night in the interests of being a mature adult? No expectations, and no hiking, I promise. Jane_

He closes his eyes.

He shouldn't.

God knows, his life is complicated enough.

But really, what is he supposed to do?

Forsake all others?

Join the priesthood?

It's just a drink, after all.

Taking a deep breath, he hits _reply_.

* * *

><p>It's almost midnight when she arrives home, and she slips her shoes off as soon as she gets through the door. The boots she's wearing might be her favourites, but in the middle of the night they tend to sound like a herd of galloping ponies on the wooden floorboards, and she'd hate to wake her housemates. The apartment is silent, but someone has left the hallway light on, as well as the one in the kitchen, and she silently thanks whoever wanted to keep her from breaking her neck in the darkness.<p>

She locks the front door behind her, leaving the latch off (she has no idea if Killian is home), then pads in the direction of her bedroom. When she hears the soft tread of someone else's feet along the hallway, coming from the direction of the kitchen, she _knows. _She'd know those measured footsteps anywhere, and she turns to face him, determined to try to keep things as normal as possible.

"Hey."

To her relief, he seems happy to pretend last night's conversation didn't happen. "Sneaking in just before your carriage turns into a pumpkin, I see."

She smiles at his teasing tone, a rush of _something _warming her chest, making her throat feel tight. "Something like that," she tells him, doing her best not to stare at him. Carrying a glass of water, he's dressed in his usual nighttime uniform of white t-shirt and checked sleep pants, and his dark hair looks as though he's repeatedly run his hands through it. _He looks tired_, she thinks. "Rough day at the office?"

(She both does and _doesn't_ want those dark smudges under his eyes to be because of her. The story of her life when it comes to Killian Jones.)

He smiles, and again she feels her throat catch. "Nothing I couldn't handle." Rising his glass of water to her in a mock toast, he starts to walk past her. "See you tomorrow, Swan."

She should just let him go. She can't. "Killian?"

He stops in his tracks, turning slowly to face her. "Yes?"

She leans against the wall of the hallway, her hands laced together in front of her in the hope of preventing herself from doing something stupid like trying to touch him. "Still friends?"

Just as it was last night, Killian's brief smile is tinged with regret. Just like it did last night, it almost cracks her heart in two. "Of course, love."

Any other time, he might give her a quick one-armed hug, or deliberately bumped his shoulder against hers. Now, though, she sees a new wariness in his eyes, the three foot-gap between them feeling as wide as the fucking Grand Canyon, and she _hates_ it. So much for pretending that last night hadn't happened.

She'd spent two hours in Walsh's bed this afternoon. He'd done all the right things and made her feel good and she'd been able to shut out the world and the noise in her head, just as she'd hoped. But now she's here, trying to find the right words to explain what she herself can't begin to understand, her palms damp and her belly filled with butterflies, and she sees this afternoon for what it really was. She'd been running away.

Maybe she still is.

_I hate you sometimes._

"Good." Wrapping her arms around herself, she gives Killian a quick nod that makes her neck feel stiff, knowing that nothing has been fixed and everything is still all wrong between them. "See you in the morning," she says softly, but he's already walking away, and she has no idea if he hears her.


	7. Chapter 7

It says a great deal about his current state of mind that he's actually glad it's Monday morning and he has a legitimate excuse to be up and out of the apartment by seven o'clock. He holds his breath as he approaches the kitchen to grab a bottle of water out of the refrigerator, not knowing who he might encounter, but the sound of soft, feminine humming has him relaxing.

Emma Swan does not hum Disney tunes.

Ever.

"Good morning, milady."

As always, Mary Margaret looks impossibly bright-eyed and far too cheerful for such an early hour. "Good morrow to you too, kind sir."

He smiles as he snags a bottle of water from the door of the refrigerator. He can't remember when the two of them fell into the habit of Ye Olde English speak, but it amuses him greatly each time it happens. Yet another thing he will miss if he makes good on his vow to himself and finds alternate accommodation, he realises, and his heart sinks. Perhaps now is as good a time as any to broach the subject. "Ah, do you have a moment?"

"I have ten of them." Mary Margaret drains her tea cup, then returns it to its saucer with a delicate _clink_. Cupping her chin in her hands, she looks at him steadily. "What's up?"

He leans against the kitchen counter top, slowly shifting the bottle of water from one hand to the other, trying to find the most polite way of saying what he needs to tell her. "I've been thinking that perhaps I might look into finding a place of my own after Thanksgiving."

"Really?" Disappointment flashes in her green eyes. "I thought you liked living here." She puts her hand to her chest, frowning. "Did I do something?"

Her reaction is so very Mary Margaret that he can't help smiling. "No, not at all."

She looks at him expectantly, obviously waiting for an explanation, and he realises that perhaps he should have prepared a speech in advance. "I've enjoyed my time here very much-"

She raises her dark eyebrows. "But?"

"I just feel that it's the right time to learn to live with my own company again." Abruptly becoming aware that he's tapping his fingers on the bottle of water he's holding, he still his hands. "I'm sure you and David will want a place of your own eventually, and despite what many people think, this time of year is actually quite a good time in which to peruse the rental market-"

She cuts him off, as polite an interruption as he's ever experienced. "Is this because you and Emma have been fighting?"

He stares at her, hoping his dismay at her sudden astuteness isn't written all over his face. "Not at all."

Tilting her head, she gives him a look that he suspects works extremely well on the ten-year olds in her charge. "You're not a very good fibber, you know."

Biting back a sigh, he decides to admit defeat while still skating around the heart of the matter. It's what he does for a living, after all. "Granted, there has been some tension recently between myself and the Lady Swan." He grabs an apple from the fruit bowl, resisting his usual habit of tossing it into the air and catching it again. "However, I simply feel that the time has come for me to leave the nest, so to speak."

"Ah, I get it." Mary Margaret purses her lips. "We're cramping your style."

He opens his mouth to dissuade her of this notion, then catches himself. She's just handed him a ready-made excuse, and he'd be lying if he said there isn't some small part of him that's perversely pleased at the thought of her passing this theory onto Emma. "A gentleman never tells tales, milady."

Laughing, she pushes back her chair and gets to her feet, moving to the sink to rinse out her tea cup and saucer. "Well, we'll miss you." She glances at him over her shoulder, her gaze uncomfortably shrewd. "Emma, especially."

Feeling as though he's just taken a step onto what he thought was firm ground only to discover it was, in fact, quicksand, he forces a smile, wondering what she'd say if he sat her down and told her every little thing that's been going on right under her nose in her own home. "I'll have you all around for tea, how's that?"

"Do you want to break the news to the others, or will I?"

Again, he wishes he'd taken the time to think through his responses to her inevitable questions. "I'll be home late this evening, so if you wish to let them know, that would be grand."

Mary Margaret dries her hands on the dishtowel and falls into step behind him as he leaves the kitchen. "You'll do anything to get out of your night to cook, won't you?"

Picking up his satchel from the couch, he shoves his water and apple into its depths, doing his best not to even glance in the direction of the hallway leading to Emma's closed bedroom door. "You've seen right through my ruse, good lady, and now I shall flee in shame."

She shakes her head at him. "Just make sure you eat something more than that apple for breakfast, okay?"

He pauses in the act of slinging the satchel over his shoulder, the concern in her voice touching a tucked-away corner of himself he thought long forgotten. "Yes, Mum."

She smiles. "You sound like Emma."

It's an innocent comment, but it still manages to make his pulse stutter. "See? A sure sign of spending too much time together, if ever I heard one." Picking up his car keys, he gives her a quick salute. "Farewell, milady."

Mary Margaret rolls her eyes as she heads towards the master bedroom, but he can see she's still smiling. "Get thee to work, wastrel."

A moment later, he pulls the front door closed behind him, thinking again that it's not just Emma he is going to miss.

* * *

><p>Emma's had better Mondays, or at least ones that didn't involve sitting on her butt in her car for most of the day, but that's just how her job rolls. A patchy night's sleep for what feels like the tenth time in a row doesn't help, neither does her inability to stop thinking about the way she'd stopped Killian in the hallway last night and asked him if they were still friends like she was a freaking five year-old.<p>

God, her face gets hot every time she thinks about it.

The thing is, she can't bear the thought of losing him. Okay, there are so few people who have come into her life and _stayed_ in it, but she doesn't want him around just to make up the numbers. Despite all their squabbles and the way they can't seem to stop trying to push each other's buttons, he _gets_ her. He gets her in a way that not even Mary Margaret and David do, and the thought of him vanishing from her life makes her chest and throat feel tight and itchy, like her allergies have descended all at once.

Being stuck doing surveillance is never a good thing when you want to escape from your own thoughts, but she does her best, thankful for the lifeline of her phone. She half-heartedly browses gossip websites and plays as many games as she can stomach, and by the time she contacts Kathryn to let her know that the guy hasn't showed and ask if she should call it a day, she's managed to get through Monday without texting Killian.

Not that her thumb didn't hover over his name in her contact list half a dozen times, though. Normally, if she was stuck somewhere like this, she'd while away the time by texting him obscure 90's movie quotes for him to guess. She knows he cheats with the answers (there's no way he could have known that line from Hackers), but that only makes it more fun. The fact that she can't bring herself to send him even the most harmless of messages is just another sign that things between them are, to put it bluntly, fucked up.

It's her week to use the apartment's car space, and she finds herself searching the street for Killian's SUV as she turns into the drive. There's no sign of it, but that means nothing. Last month, he'd had to park on the next block five days running, something the rest of them had heard about on a daily basis.

The apartments smells of someone else's cooking (her favourite kind) when she opens the door, and she smiles. It's funny to think that after so many years of trying to find a 'real' home with one foster family after another, it's_ this_ place that turned out to be the one that ticked almost all the boxes on her mental list.

Almost, but not quite. She's not sure 'fall in love with your housemate and make life awkward for yourself and everyone around' would make anyone's list.

After dumping her things in her room, she finds David in the kitchen, hovering over the rice cooker.

"Hey."

"How was your day?"

"I sat in my car for five hours waiting outside a house in Cambridge waiting for a twenty year-old bail skip who never showed up to his day in court last week." She pulls a face as she heads for the refrigerator. "Needless to say, he didn't show up in Cambridge today, either."

"Five hours?" David pokes the rice with a fork. "Sounds like fun."

"A laugh a minute," she tells him as she unearths a can of soda, "but seeing as I get paid even if the bad guy doesn't show up, I can deal."

"What was this bad guy's particular penchant?"

Popping her soda can, Emma slouches against the counter beside him. "Oh, apparently he likes to steal the fancy cars belonging to his parents' neighbours and sell them to the highest bidding chop shop."

"His parents must be very proud."

"Well, they refused to cough up his bail this time around and he had to lower himself and use Midas' services." She takes a long swig of her drink, then pats her chest as the bubbles seem to hit her airways. _She really has to stop drinking this stuff_, she thinks. "Which, of course, is why Kathryn's very eager for me to haul his ass in and get his court date rescheduled, even if it means I have to sit in my car for the rest of the week."

Apparently finished fluffing the rice to his satisfaction, David replaces the lid and rubs his hands together. "Well, I hope you haven't been snacking on pop tarts all day, because-" Emma bites her lip, literally _feeling_ the guilt wash across her face, and David shakes his head at her. "As I was saying, I hope you're hungry." He points to the slow cooker on the counter top. "Voila. Chicken surprise."

She grins. "What's the surprise?"

"That I remembered to throw the ingredients into the slow cooker before I left for work this morning."

Tucking her hair behind her ears, she starts pulling plates out of the cupboard. "It's Monday, though." Normally, she wouldn't think twice about asking where Killian is, but things are far from normal at the moment, and she finds herself dancing around the question. "I didn't think it was your night to cook."

"It's not, but Killian's working late again." David looks at her as he clunks the metal basket of flatware onto the counter top. (The faux antique container is yet another thing from Walsh's store, and having seen the retail price of those things yesterday, Emma's very glad she got it for free.) "Anyone would think he was avoiding coming home."

"Don't start." She wants to think that the uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach is hunger, but she knows better. "Where's your better half?"

A loud yawn, then the familiar shuffle of Mary Margaret's slipper-clad feet, answers her question. "I'm here."

"There's my sleeping beauty." David beams, sweeping around the island kitchen counter to kiss the top of her head. "Feeling better?"

"Gosh, how is it seven o'clock?" Mary Margaret's face is pale, her eyes puffy with sleep. "I swear I just closed my eyes for a few seconds."

Emma frowns at her friend. "Are you okay? Not coming down with something?"

"Just a niggling headache all day." Mary Margaret sighs. "That's the life of a school teacher, though." Lifting the glass lid of the slow cooker, she smiles faintly at the contents. "There's only so much vitamin C and garlic you can consume to ward off these things when a dozen kids in your class are already sniffling and sneezing."

The next fifteen minutes are uneventful, with plates being passed and Emma and David debating whether they should open a bottle of wine or stick with soda. Soda wins, but only after Emma points out that they've had wine (and quite a lot of it) five nights running, and maybe it's time to give their livers a break. "You sound like Killian," Mary Margaret tells her with a smile, and Emma looks at her, startled. Before she can deny the accusation (she certainly does _not_ sound like him), her friend goes on. "Speaking of Killian, now that you're both here, I can tell you the bad news."

And just like that, Emma's heart is racing like a frightened jackrabbit. "Bad news?"

Mary Margaret spears a piece of chicken with her fork. "Unless we decide to have a guest room instead, we're going to have to interview potential roomies again, I'm afraid."

Emma puts down her own fork, her appetite suddenly fleeing. Across the table, David has stopped eating as well. "Why?"

"Killian's planning to move out." The other woman shrugs. "He didn't say exactly, but I got the feeling he wants to live by himself."

Emma stares down at her plate, feeling as though her stomach has turned inside out. Luckily, David seems happy to do the questioning. "When did this happen?"

"I talked to him this morning, just before I left to go to work."

David sighs, then goes back to eating his dinner. "That's disappointing."

"Well, you can't blame him, I guess. It would be hard for a single guy to have the privacy he needs with the three of us here all the time." Mary Margaret sips at her water. "Maybe there's a new woman on the scene, I don't know."

Emma looks up at that, unable to stop the words tumbling from her mouth. "Did he say that?"

Mary Margaret just shrugs, but Emma can feel David looking at her from across the table. "No, I just picked up on what he wasn't saying, if that makes sense."

Carefully avoiding David's gaze, Emma pushes a small pile of rice around on her plate. "Did he say when?"

"After Thanksgiving, I think." The other woman breaks off, then takes another sip of water. "Uh-oh."

David frowns, sliding his arm around the back of her chair. "You okay?"

"I think I overestimated my powers of recovery," Mary Margaret says in a thick voice, then she pushes back her chair. "Excuse me."

Emma knows that as soon as she and David are alone, he's going to _start_, and he doesn't disappoint her. "Emma."

Maybe if she keeps staring down at her plate, he will magically take the hint and drop the subject. "Don't."

"Come on. You and I both know why he might want to move out."

_That_ tears her attention away from her uneaten dinner, and she shoots him a glare across the table. "Are you saying it's my fault he's leaving?"

"No." He's using his 'concerned father' voice on her again and, to her horror, it makes her feel like she might cry. "I'm just saying that maybe he's decided there's no point sticking around."

She drops her head into her hands, pressing her palms hard against her temples, because suddenly Mary Margaret's not the only one with the niggling headache. "I didn't ask for any of this."

"I know, but this is how love works. It's messy and unpredictable."

She closes her eyes at the mention of the word _love_. "You are _not_ seriously trying to tell me that he's in love with me." Just saying the words makes an odd ache hollow out her chest, and she looks up at David, afraid of what his answer might be.

"I just think you owe it to yourself, _and _to Walsh, to think long and hard about what's really going on in your _heart_, not just your head." He picks up both his (empty) and Mary Margaret's (almost untouched) plates, taking them to the kitchen counter. "And talk to Killian before I do it for you." He looks at her over his shoulder as he transfers his girlfriend's uneaten dinner in a plastic container. "You two are driving me nuts."

After a comforting pat on the shoulder (it only makes her feel worse, but he's trying, and she loves him for it), he leaves her, heading towards the master bedroom to check on Mary Margaret.

Knowing that she'll only end up with a headache if she doesn't eat something, Emma manages to finish half of her dinner, then follows David's lead and stashes the leftovers in the refrigerator. After checking in briefly with the patient (Mary Margaret is feeling better but gone to bed early, just to be on the safe side) she and David end up in front of the television, watching a marathon of nineties action movies and _not_ talking about Killian.

Of course, David doesn't have to mention him for Emma to be thinking about him. They're watching the trashy movies he loves to hate, after all. Emma plays games on her phone involved stopping small animals from falling off coloured blocks, one eye on the television, half-smiling at David every time he makes a cheerful sound of appreciation at the clichéd lines being tossed about on the screen.

Aside from Mary Margaret flaking out so early, it's a pretty normal Monday night. Or at least it would be, if not for the empty spot on the second couch that looms large in Emma's field of vision, no matter which way she looks.

David calls it a night around ten (he's got a media meeting in the morning to kick off the annual 'a pet isn't just for the holidays' campaign) but Emma stays where she is. David's right, she realises. She'd been wrong to brush off Killian last night when he said they should talk about what's going on between them, but it had all been too much, too soon, too real.

Being with Walsh has always been easy. Safe, even.

Being friends with Killian has always made her feel safe, too. She trusts him with her life and everything she owns.

She just doesn't know if she can trust him with her heart.

Maybe David's right, she thinks as she stares at the television screen with increasingly tired eyes, she owes it to herself to find out if there's something there. Something that's actually worth taking that risk.

She forces herself to wait up until midnight, finally admitting defeat when she wakes up with a start, finding herself slumped sideways on the couch and an infomercial for a steam mop playing on the television. Rubbing her eyes, she cranes her neck, but the door of Killian's bedroom is still half-ajar, just as it had been after he'd left for work this morning. She won't be having a heart to heart with him tonight, that's for sure.

She's almost relieved, because she has no idea how the hell to kick off the discussion other than to blurt out that she likes him and does he like her, and she's almost thirty, not a ten year-old with a crush.

When she shuffles into the kitchen at seven-thirty the next morning (after another extremely average night's sleep) he's nowhere to be seen. David's already headed off to the shelter, and Mary Margaret has taken a sick day and is tucked in bed with a box of tissues and a steaming cup of Earl Grey with lemon and honey.

It's not until she's putting the finishing touches to her makeup in the bathroom, a room strangely devoid of any evidence that its other user has visited it recently, that it occurs to her that maybe he didn't come home at all. Maybe Mary Margaret was right when she read between the lines, and there _is_ someone new in his life.

The thought sits sour and hard in the pit of her stomach, and she feels her jaw tighten as she pulls her favourite red leather jacket out of the closet. She has another day of tailing that Cambridge bail skip ahead of her, and she almost feels sorry for him if he decides to show his face today, because right now, she's in the mood to punch something (or someone) very hard.

* * *

><p>Groaning, Killian puts a hand over his eyes as the beep of his phone alarm insists on telling him that it's 6 a.m. His back aches, and his mouth feels like he's been chewing on the stuffing of his pillow in his sleep. Slowly, he opens his eyes to stare up a ceiling that, while familiar, definitely doesn't belong in his bedroom.<p>

It's not the first time he's slept on Victor Whale's couch, and he's very much afraid it won't be the last.

His current state is completely his own fault, of course. He should have known better than to take his friend up on a suggestion of late dinner and a drink after he'd finally finished up at the office just after nine last night. The late dinner hadn't been the issue. The problem had been, as it always seems to be when he catches up with Victor, that one drink had swiftly become five. Then there had been more food of the deep fried variety, then a few more drinks, and suddenly catching a taxi home to his apartment had seemed all too hard when Victor's loft was within walking distance of the last pub they'd been politely asked to vacate.

And now it's Tuesday morning, he hasn't been home and he feels like he's slept on a mattress stuffed with empty tin cans all night (he's sure it's a lovely couch, but it's a foot shorter than he is). Adding insult to injury, he doesn't have time to go home to shower and change before he's due at the office, where he has the sinking feeling he has a nine o'clock appointment with a new client.

_Outstanding._

Something soft and smelling of fabric softener is dropped on his head, and he belatedly recognises the sound of footsteps approaching his makeshift bed. "Wakey, wakey, sunshine!"

"Sod off." He pulls the clean towel from his face and slowly sits up. His head doesn't hurt and there's no detectable urge to throw up, so he takes that as a victory.

"Is that any way to talk to the friend who listened to you ramble on and on about some girl last night and then offered you shelter when you were too drunk to find your own ass, let alone your wallet, at the taxi stand last night?"

He narrows his eyes across the room at Victor, who is already dressed and looking nauseatingly refreshed. "I," he announces with a modest attempt at dignity as he rises to his feet, "do not ramble, even at the height of inebriation."

"I beg to differ, _mate._" His friend looks greatly amused. "Although, I have to say, it was pretty impressive stuff, the way you talked about that chick for almost an hour and I still don't have the faintest fucking idea who she is."

_Oh, God._

If he'd been rambling about Jane, how she'd emailed him and how he'd replied and organised to catch up over a drink on the weekend, Victor would have been able to surmise that fairly quickly. He'd been talking about Emma, he realises dully, and his long habit of keeping his feelings for her strictly to himself had managed to survive the onslaught of whiskey he'd thrown at it last night.

"Come on, hop to it, Jones." Victor waves a hand in his direction. "If you want to clean up and borrow something to wear to the office that doesn't reek of Ireland's finest liquid export, then make it snappy. I've got a conciliation conference at the other side's office at nine-thirty, and they're all the way out in the buttfuck 'burbs." He's staring at his phone, rolling his eyes at whatever he's reading. "God, what an asshead." Looking up, he gives Killian another 'hurry up' motion with his hand. "Ah, while we're both young?"

Forty-five minutes later, Victor's dropped him at the train station on his way to 'bludgeon some sense' into the claimant and his lawyers. After thirty seconds' worth of trading insults regarding drinking stamina and a thank you regarding the bed for the night, Killian slams the passenger door shut, lifting his hand in a wave as Victor pulls away from the curb. Wrapping his scarf around the collar of his borrowed shirt, he makes the train with a few seconds to spare, and is finally alone with his thoughts.

Pity they're such poor company.

After the slight hiccup of ending up on Victor's couch on Monday night, his week falls into a faintly depressing pattern. In short, early to rise, late to arrive home. It's easy to find enough work to occupy him until late each evening, even easier to find somewhere near his office to grab a late dinner before heading back to his desk. He's careful not to allocate the extra billable hours to his clients' files. After all, it's not their fault that he's incapable of confronting the woman he loves after she'd made it painfully clear that she'd chosen elsewhere.

For a few days, it works. The apartment is quiet and still when he arrives home late each evening, and it seems that not even domestic tension can affect Emma's adherence to her morning alarm time of seven o'clock. In the past, there have been weeks when he's gone days without seeing her, and thought nothing of it. Now, though, nervous anticipation prickles at his chest every time he puts his key in the front door, and every time she's nowhere to be seen, he cannot decide if he is disappointed or relieved.

By Thursday evening, he's beyond weary, and the thought of staying late at the office and picking over the affidavit of a woman determined to ensure that her soon-to-be-ex-husband won't ever get to see his newborn child isn't an appealing one. While Killian certainly understands her rage (sleeping with your wife's friend while your wife is in hospital after giving birth to your child is _beyond _bad form), he can't help feeling a head-shaking sense of sympathy for the man. Throwing away one's whole life for a few hours of pleasure is a painfully common theme in his clients' tales of woe, and the urge to concoct a form letter simply consisting of 'What the bloody hell were you thinking?' often comes upon him.

As soon as he opens the apartment door, he knows his luck has run out. He can, he realises with a start, smell Emma's perfume. The familiar scent teases his nose, bringing to mind a litany of memories. Laughing until his ribs ached, allowing her to steal the last pop-tart simply to enjoy her smile of triumph, the way she would manipulate him into watching the movie _she_ wished to watch when they were sprawled on the matching couches so skillfully that he'd frequently forget his original choice of film.

The way his whole body had come alive when she'd kissed him.

Admitting defeat, he hangs up his coat and scarf on the rack near the door, then drops his satchel and tie onto his bed. As he reaches the end of the hallway leading to the kitchen, he can hear the low murmur of female conversation, telling him that Emma's not alone. Again, he's not sure whether he's relieved or disappointed.

"Evening, ladies."

Emma picks up the knife that's just clattered to the counter top, her expression flustered. "Howdy, stranger," she mutters without meeting his gaze, returning to her task of chopping onions. He knows her tear-stained face is a result of her chopping endeavors and not any upset, but the sight still troubles him.

"You okay there, Swan?"

She swipes the back of her sleeve against her reddened eyes, still determinedly staring down at the chopping board in front of her. "Never better."

"I offered to do it, but you know how she is," Mary Margaret says from her seat at the kitchen table, busily trimming the ends off green beans before dropping them into a metal colander to her right. "Insisted on doing it."

"That's because you're even worse than me when it comes to onions," Emma tells her, her voice thick with tears, and Killian is gripped by a tender exasperation. She _will_ insist on chopping onions despite the fact that she'll be weeping for the next hour. Crossing the kitchen, he leans across her and gently takes the knife from her hand.

"Allow me, love." His traitorous pulse quickens at their closeness - at the warmth of her, and the scent of her skin and hair mingled with that wicked perfume - but he allows himself nothing more than a simple nudge of his shoulder against hers. "Go wash your pretty face, Swan. You'll be right as rain in a few minutes."

She finally looks at him, her lips softly parted on what he's sure is a protest (stubborn wench that she is), their eyes locking. He grows absolutely still, caught in the web of her green gaze, then Mary Margaret chimes in behind them.

"He's right." She_ tsks_ at Emma's red eyes. "Actually, maybe take an antihistamine too, or you'll be sniffling and rubbing your eyes all night."

"Yes, Mom," Emma mumbles with a smile at the other woman, and Killian blinks.

_You sound like Emma._ Bloody hell. The school teacher was right, as per usual.

Emma moves away from his side to rinse her hands under the cold water tap. "Just don't let me forget and drink anything tonight, okay?" She's addressing them both, her back to the room. "I'd rather not have any more chunks of my life missing." She dries her hands quickly, then vanishes in the direction of the bathroom.

Killian frowns at Mary Margaret. "Chunks of her life?"

"Oh, you know, when you two decided to wallpaper the apartment in pizza boxes last week." Killian watches her deft movements as she snaps off the ends of the green beans. "Her hay fever had been acting up so she took some antihistamines after dinner, but then _you_ had to go and challenge her to vodka shots." Mary Margaret shakes her head at him, but he barely notices. He's far too busy putting two and two together and coming up with the reason why Emma doesn't remember kissing him. "The poor girl had a prize-winning hangover the next morning, I can tell you."

She heads to the sink to rinse the beans, leaving Killian raising his eyes to the heavens in her wake, the pieces of the Emma puzzle clicking into place with little sense of victory. Two tiny white pills are the reason he's been carrying the weight of their shared secret alone for the last week, and he can't help but think that modern medicine has a lot of answer for in this case.

The next few minutes are something of a blur. He enquires of Mary Margaret as to what they're planning for dinner (steak and as many vegetables as she can coax them all to eat), finishes off the task of chopping the onions, then asks if there's anything else she'd like him to do.

When she points him in the direction of the cast iron grill pan on the stovetop, he raises his eyebrows. "Are you sure? Where's Dave?" David's love of a perfectly cook steak is only matched by his refusal to admit that he might not be the only one in the apartment capable of producing such a thing. "I'd hate to step on his cooking toes."

"He's working late tonight." Her dimples flash as she smiles at him. "And _we're _hungry_."_

Grinning, he rolls up his sleeves and washes his hands. "In that case, milady, it would be my pleasure."

They work together in a companionable silence for a few moments, but he's far from relaxed. Every sound he hears from the rest of the apartment makes his nerves tighten, a situation that doesn't improve when Emma finally reappears, now wearing sweatpants and a matching hooded top, her face washed bare of make-up. Distracted, he almost burns his thumb on the edge of the cast iron pan he's currently heating to the point of smoking, and he swallows back several colourful words.

_God_, he's missed her.

Mary Margaret says something about pearl barley (at least it's not that quinoa business again, he thinks) and is engaged in a search of the pantry when Emma clears her throat. "I hear you're planning on moving out."

Making sure his fingers are clear of the hot pan, he turns to look at her. She's leaning against the kitchen counter, her own fingers fidgeting with the zipper of her hooded sweatshirt. The tip of her nose is pink from her reaction to the onion fumes, the mass of her glorious hair pulled back in a scrappy bun. She's the best thing he's seen in days, and she's looking at him as though she wants him to tell that she's heard wrong.

He can't, though. He needs to take a step back for both their sakes, and he can't keep living on the tiny scraps of hope he finds hidden in her words and the way she looks at him. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you in person." He knows Mary Margaret is probably listening, but he needs Emma to know that he had no wish to slight her. "Work has been quite mad this week."

She nods at this, her pale throat working as she swallows hard. If she's angry at him for letting her hear his news through a third party, she's obviously not about to tell him. "So, have you found a place?"

Taken off guard by the tremor in her voice, he tells her the truth. "I haven't had time to start looking as yet."

Well, it's almost the truth. He could have _made_ time, if he'd truly wanted to do so.

He sees her take a deep breath, then Mary Margaret's triumphant cry from the depths of the pantry snaps the moment of connection stretching between them. "Found it!" Emma turns away, pulling out plates and silverware before heading towards the refrigerator, and again, he bites back a choice few words. _Damn it._

"I_ knew_ we still had some pearl barley left," Mary Margaret announces happily as she clunks a jar of what looks like dirty brown rice onto the counter top. "David hates it, but he's not here, so-"

"What he doesn't eat won't hurt him." Looking up, he catches Emma watching them, one hand on the refrigerator, her expression oddly wistful. "Want to learn how to cook the perfect steak, Swan?" He's a fool, he knows. Four scant days after he'd made a vow to himself that he would keep his distance, he's trying to bond with her in the most shameless of ways.

He could have saved his breath, because she simply shakes her head. "Actually, I need to answer a couple of work emails before dinner," she mutters, a bottle of water clutched in her hand. "You guys can manage without me, right?"

A smiling Mary Margaret waves her away. "I seem to remember you promised to make pizza tomorrow night, so you're free to go."

Despite the fact he knows she's wearing the sweatpants that sit low on her hips and make the swell of her arse look even more enticing, he doesn't watch Emma as she leaves the room. He's a glutton for punishment, obviously, but even he has his limits. Plus, he'd rather not let the grill pan catch fire. _At least the exhaust fan over the stove works_, he muses, the idle thought immediately lifting him up and dumping him back in the midst of a memory of a steam-filled bathroom and Emma staring at him as though she was truly seeing him for the first time.

Glutton for punishment, indeed.

He busies himself with the task of making dinner, hauling various ingredients out of the refrigerator and pantry to make a sauce that hopefully will help him feign enthusiasm at the prospect of eating bloody barley with his steak. Mary Margaret watches with interest, waving a hand of protest only when he unearths a miniature of Irish whiskey that he and Emma had bought to add to their coffee on St Patrick's Day earlier this year but had then completely forgotten, thanks to a raucous after-work session at the Irish pub closest to his office. "Oh, can you leave that out? Is that okay? I'm not feeling the love for anything boozy at the moment."

"Your wish is my command." He slips the small bottle back onto the seasonings shelf without attempting to explain that the alcohol content after cooking would be miniscule at best. He's shared an apartment with two strong-willed women long enough to know that it pays to pick one's battles. "With enough mustard and Worcestershire sauce, we'll never notice the difference."

Emma reappears fifteen minutes later, and he frowns at the sight of her once again dressed in her jeans and leather jacket. "I'll have to take a raincheck on that steak, guys. Kathryn's sent through an urgent job."

He truly hopes that his disappointment isn't etched all over his face. "That's a pity, Swan." He turns off the flame under the grill pan to let the meat rest, then wipes his hands on a paper towel. "I'll ensure that your evening repast is safely squirreled away for your later enjoyment."

"Seriously?" She smiles at him, _really_ smiles at him for the first time in what feels like days. "You couldn't just say that you'll stick my dinner in the refrigerator?"

He waves the tongs in his hand in a florid gesture, feeling ridiculously giddy in the wake of that smile. "One seeks to embrace the poetry of everyday words and everyday life, wherever one finds it."

She shakes her head at him. "Idiot." She's still smiling, though, and something tight and tense inside his chest starts to fray and loosen. "On that poetic note, I'm out of here." She turns to Mary Margaret. "This will probably be an all-nighter, so David can use our car space when he gets home if he wants."

"I'm sure he'd only too glad not to have to search the street for a space after all the long-winded meetings he's having today." Mary Margaret reaches for her phone where it's sitting on the kitchen table. "Just let me know if you finish earlier, okay?"

"Sure thing." She strides out of the kitchen without a backward glance. "Night, all."

Killian hefts a sigh as he finishes making the sauce for the steak, his enthusiasm somewhat diminished. Perhaps he's being fanciful (he's been guilty of such things before) but the room suddenly seems drained of atmosphere and warmth, despite his present cheerful company and the heat from the stove.

"She's been working such long hours lately, I worry about her sometimes." Mary Margaret's tone is faintly absent-minded, and a glance across the kitchen confirms that she's busily tapping out a text message to David. She does, however, spare him a quick flick of her dark eyes as she goes on. "Just like someone else I could name, present company _not _excluded."

Before he can make a vague disclaimer (which would be entirely untrue) about the hours he's currently keeping, Mary Margaret finishes sending her message and pops up beside him at the stove, watching as he adds and stirs and tastes. She takes a long, appreciative sniff of the sauce he's created, then smiles at him. "So! What kind of apartment are you looking for?"

_Bugger._ It seems he's in for another round of Q & A, and he thinks longingly of the tiny bottle of whiskey in the pantry. Wondering how quickly he can distract her with a DVD or an enthusiastic discussion about her latest crop of students, he returns her smile. "I'm still trying to figure that out."

It's the story of his life at this point in time, to be honest.

* * *

><p>Leaning against the front booking desk of the city police station, Emma rubs her aching shoulder, hoping she didn't ruin her second favourite leather jacket when she hit the ground. Leather jacket aside, she thinks as she does a tiny finger wave as her car thief from Cambridge is lead away by Boston's finest, it was totally worth it.<p>

Another dirtbag taught a lesson (that they won't learn, she knows, but _still_) about how signing a bail bond contract actually means something, and another hefty whack of cash to put towards her 'be somewhere hot for the holidays next year' fund.

Too bad she's too late (and too financially compromised) to organise an island getaway this year. The thought of escaping, well, _everything_, for a week or two is almost enough to make her mouth water.

(Okay, it's a weird analogy, but she stands by it.)

Her shoulder has started to ache by the time she gets back to the office. Swinging the Bug into the empty bay next to Kathryn's gold Audi, she makes a mental note to stop at the drugstore and pick up a tube of Icy Hot on the way home. It's something she and Mary Margaret try to keep on hand in the bathroom cabinet at all times, but they live with two men who think they're much better at sports than they actually are. Kicked shins and corked thighs (whatever the hell _they_ are) after 'friendly' rugby games are a common occurrence, and Emma has no idea if their stock has been depleted over the last month.

Given that it's after three in the morning, she's not surprised that the front door to the office is locked. She buzzes the security intercom, and Kathryn's voice crackles out at her. "Friend or foe?"

"What about a tired but victorious employee?" Emma asks the intercom, and she hears the other woman laugh.

"I hope you didn't rough him up too badly."

Emma grins. "He'll live."

A moment later, she's dumped her tools of trade - cuffs, taser, pepper spray – onto her desk, and given Kathryn a weary wave. "Don't take this the wrong way, but what the hell are you still doing here?"

"I'm waiting on a few files to come through from one of my contacts in Sydney about a case that I will tell you all about tomorrow when I'm not wired on this stuff." Her boss lifts a can of energy drink, which explains why she's talking at a million miles an hour, Emma realises. "I thought I'd be done by midnight, then it got to the stage where I would have just woken Freddy and the kids if I'd arrived home in the middle of the night, so I decided it was just easier to stay here."

Emma feels the usual wave of admiration that grips her whenever she remembers that not only has Kathryn taken her father's modest business and turned it into a roaring success, she's also married to an extremely handsome man and has two children under five. "Anything I can do? Want me to file that paperwork tonight?"

Kathryn grins, and Emma sighs. _She really should learn not to ask these sorts of questions,_ she thinks. "Any coffee in the pot?"

"Just made a fresh batch."

"Wow, it's like you _knew _I was on my way back to the office."

The coffee helps, but the sound of both her and Kathryn's fingers flying over their respective keyboards is almost enough to lull her to sleep. She obviously stops typing long enough for Kathryn to notice the silence. "You're not falling asleep on me out here, are you?"

"Maybe a little." Emma rubs her eyes, feeling the residual tenderness from her earlier encounter with the onions. "I had to take some anti-allergy mediation earlier, and it's supposed to be non-drowsy, but-"

"Now it's my turn to say don't take this the wrong way, but you do look a little tired." Kathryn makes a soft _aha_ sound, then followed by several clicks of her mouse, and Emma can only assume that the files she's been expecting have finally landed in her inbox. "Nice work, Simmonds," she hears the other woman tell their unseen contact in Sydney, then Kathryn suddenly appears in the doorway of her office, casting a critical eye over her employee. 'Obviously you're still enjoying working for the best boss in the world, but are things okay elsewhere?"

Emma looks at her, and decides that nothing could tempt her to share her current set of woes with her boss. "Yeah, fine."

Kathryn nods, her expression making it plain she's not buying Emma's polite brush-off for a moment. "There's a chance of some out-of-town work coming up, maybe as soon as this weekend. You up for it?"

Emma blinks determinedly. "Sure."

"Great." Her boss looks pleased. "After that, though, I really think you should take some time off over Thanksgiving."

"No point." Her voice sounds reedy and thin, but Emma decides to put that down to tiredness. "Walsh has to stay in town the whole Thanksgiving weekend for work stuff, and my housemates are going out of town."

"The whole apartment to yourself for four whole days. Sounds like bliss." Her boss' eyes take on a dreamy glaze, and Emma has to admit, if she had two children under five and worked the hours that Kathryn does, she might relish an empty apartment for four days too.

Once upon a time, she_ would_ have relished it. But she doesn't, not anymore. Emma's lived alone. In fact, she's lived alone most of her adult life. She used to think that she liked it, that it was what suited her best, until she moved in with David and Mary Margaret. _And Killian_, a niggling voice prompts her. Two weeks after she'd moved into the second biggest bedroom, she realised that all those other places had just been a place to sleep. None of them had felt like home.

She really doesn't want to lose that feeling, but every day she can feel it slipping away from her. She thinks of how _easy_ Mary Margaret and Killian had been with each other as they prepared dinner tonight, and the tension she could literally feel vibrating through the air from him as soon as _she'd_ come into the kitchen.

Tomorrow's Friday, which means it will officially have been a week of this weirdness. Funny, she thinks, it feels much longer than that.

"You alright, Emma?"

"Sorry. Zoned out there." Her eyes feel gritty and her shoulder hurts, and the thought of her bed is almost enough to make her swoon.

"Go home." Reaching down, Kathryn pats her on the shoulder. "And don't show your face around here again until midday at least."

"Thanks." Emma doesn't bother calculating how many hours of sleep that means she might be able to grab. The sooner she gets home, the sooner she can be horizontal. She'll think about her messed up sleep pattern later.

She remembers her aching shoulder at the last moment, doing a quick cash and dash in the all-night drugstore close to their apartment. By the time she's closing her own front door behind her, it's after five a.m., and she sends up a silent prayer of thanks that it's November rather than July. The worst thing in the world when you're dead tired is to turn off your bedroom light only to hear the chirping of the freaking dawn chorus outside your window.

She trudges her way through getting ready for bed, saving the application of the dreaded Icy Hot until last. She and Mary Margaret had tried buying the no-scent version in the past, but the males in the apartment had vetoed that decision. (Something about the placebo effect not being properly activated without the comforting familiarity of the eye-watering stench of menthol - no prizes for guessing whose sound bite _that _was, she thinks.)

It's five-thirty by the time she's finished rubbing the stuff into her wrenched shoulder so hard that she swears she almost sees smoke rising from her skin. She'll have an impressive bruise there by tomorrow, but that's nothing new. Afterwards, she scrubs her hands to the point of redness (overkill maybe, but she's rubbed her eyes after this ritual once before, and she has no desire to revisit that particular sensation) and flicks off the bathroom light. As she reaches her bedroom, she automatically glances across the apartment to where Killian's door is shut tight. The thought suddenly occurs to her that if she can hang in there for another thirty minutes, his alarm will go off.

_And then what?_ she asks herself. Exhausted and perfumed by _eau de_ locker room, she literally sways on her feet as she stands in the hallway, gripped with indecision. Finally, the combination of her bed and common sense win out, and she slips into her bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind her.

She falls asleep almost as soon as her head hits the pillow, swirling away in a cloud of warm menthol, and doesn't resurface until ten o'clock the next morning. To her relief, the ache in her shoulder has become a very faint twinge. Maybe there's something in Killian's placebo theory after all, she thinks wryly.

Once she's showered, she heads to the kitchen in search of coffee and food. On the top shelf of the refrigerator, she finds a plastic lunchbox with a large pink post-it note and plastic fork sitting on top of it. Pulling it off the shelf, she stares at the cartoon swan that _someone_ has drawn on the post-it note, then reads the words scribbled below it.

_A steak fit for a stake-out, milady._

She pries open the lid to find he's actually cut the meat and vegetables into bite-sized pieces, perfect for someone who might need to eat sitting in their car while waiting for a court-date-skipping-douchebag to show their face.

It's perfect and stupid and ridiculous and she wants to hate him for turning her into the kind of person who stares at a fucking plastic lunchbox and fork (he's wrapped that in a napkin, for fuck's sake), feeling as though tears are jammed in their throat.

She doesn't hate him.

She loves him.

She's always loved him.

She loves him, and he's planning to move out after Thanksgiving.

He's going to leave.

The thought sends a sharp, stabbing sense of panic through her.

The thought of telling Walsh that it's over inspires the same feeling of panic, but she has to end it. She knows that now, even if nothing happens with Killian, because he deserves someone who isn't in love with another man.

If she'd been expecting a 'fork in the road' moment (literally, she muses, thinking of her carefully packed leftovers), this is it. She's got less than two weeks to try to sort out her head and her heart and her life, and she's already agreed to go out of town for a job for Kathryn, maybe as soon as Sunday and for God-only-knows-how-long.

_Fuck._

No pressure, then.

Trying to ignore the irony in having the overly loud _tick tock_ of the mock vintage clock on the kitchen wall as her private soundtrack, she sighs as she rubs her thumb over the ridiculous cartoon swan. To borrow a familiar choice phrase from its artistic creator, _bloody hell._


	8. Chapter 8

Eating dinner in Mary Margaret's company is usually a restful experience. This evening, however, she has him (and his future plans) firmly in her sights, and it takes twice as long to eat their dinner as it usually does, given that he seems to be answering yet another question in between each bite.

By the time they've stacked the dishwasher and left the cast iron grill pan to soak (always an unfortunate side-effect of cooking steak), it's after nine o'clock and he has begun to pray for the sound of David's key in the front door lock.

"Sure, a one bedroom loft sounds great now, but what happens when you meet Miss Right?"

He's glad Mary Margaret is behind him as they make their way towards the living room, because he's quite sure his expression is the very picture of exasperation. "In that unlikely event, I'll just have to be sure not to have any dire quarrels late at night that might necessitate the need for a second bedroom," he returns lightly over his shoulder, hoping fervently that he can find a television program to ensnare her attention.

She laughs as she settles herself into the corner of the couch she and David usually favour, tucking her legs up underneath her. "Emma was right."

At the sudden mention of Emma, coming on the heels of a discussion of potential lover's quarrels and bedrooms, the television remote almost slips from his grasp. "About what?"

"You really do love flowery language, don't you?"

He quickly finds the History channel, knowing his interrogator is a sucker for its programming. "I would have thought you would approve of such a habit, given your vocation."

"I _do _approve." She stretches her arms above her head, her lips twisting in a smiling yawn. She'd spent the day on a field trip with her class, and even to Killian's untrained eye, she looks exhausted. "I think it's charming."

"Thank you, milady." He gives her a mock bow before dropping onto the other couch. _If only he could be certain that his other female housemate found it charming,_ he thinks. He remembers the way Emma had smiled at him even as she'd pulled him up on his vocabulary choices before she'd had to dash off into the night to chase down yet another oxygen thief. She isn't immune to his charms, he knows that, but as he'd told his brother, fancying someone is no guarantee that deeper feelings exist.

He stares at the educational wildlife program he's chosen (his companion is already avidly watching), his head a million miles away. If Emma hadn't been so utterly uninterested in pursuing with him in all the years they've known each other (different cities and relationship statuses aside, there is always a way if two people wish for the same thing), he might be tempted to take her behaviour over the last week as a sign that she's had a change of heart.

Kissing him last Thursday night had been the start of it, but their every interaction since has been laced with possibility, silent questioning and a simmering awareness of each other. It's always been there as far as he's concerned, but now it's being mirrored back at him, an echo of his own longing. The past week has been confusing and exhilarating, to say the least, and he can't help wondering if something besides irritation with Walsh and vodka-based decisions had been behind that kiss.

He glances across at Mary Margaret. Aside from his brother, she's the only one who might know that his feelings for Emma aren't as platonic as advertised. That particular conversation was so long ago, it's possible she's forgotten entirely, but there's only one way to find out. "Speaking of Emma," he begins, and Mary Margaret looks at him with undisguised interest, tempting him to abandon the conversation. He doesn't, though, because he's on the verge of looking for a new home, and the time for dithering has well and truly passed. "Do you remember the first day we all met?"

She beams at him. "I certainly do."

He runs his hand through his hair, wondering if perhaps he's about to open a rather large can of worms, as the saying goes. "Do you recall the conversation you and I had that day? I asked you if Emma was seeing anyone, do you remember?"

Something unreadable flashes in her dark eyes. "I do."

"I've been wondering." He does his best to sound casual, but it's far from his best work. "Did you mention our conversation to her at all?"

She hesitates, and his breath catches in his throat, then she shakes her head. "I didn't say anything to her at the time, no." She picks at the hem of her pink sweater, her gaze sliding back to the penguins waddling across the television screen. "She was with Neal, and she'd been through way too many ups and downs over the years for me to complicate things by tossing _you_ into the mix."

He frowns, his thoughts relentlessly circling three particular words - _at the time _– but she doesn't give him the chance to speak before she's voicing a question of her own. "Why do you ask?"

He looks at her, years of friendship stretching out between them, and decides a small sampling of the truth couldn't hurt. "Things have been oddly strained between Emma and I lately," he begins carefully, "and it occurred to me that perhaps there was a reason why she might feel awkward around me." Catching her eye, he gestures towards himself with a mocking hand. "Apart from my dashing good looks, of course."

If he had to pick a word that described Mary Margaret's expression at this point, it would be _conflicted._ There's a blush on her cheeks, and she seems to be having trouble meeting his eyes. "Killian, this is something you really should discuss with Emma, not with me."

A dozen red flags shoot up inside his head (since when does Mary Margaret not wish to advise her friends on affairs of the heart?) as the sound of the front door being unlocked echoes through the quiet apartment, quickly followed by David's cheerful greeting. "Hi honey, I'm home."

Killian waves at the other man as he appears in the hallway. "Hello, sweetheart."

David rolls his eyes, then bends over the back of the couch to kiss the top of Mary Margaret's head. "Sorry, _darling_, but I'm very much taken." He smooths his hand over the curve of his girlfriend's dark hair, glancing quickly at the television as he does. "Penguins? Really? This is what the two of you do when you're left to your own devices?"

Mary Margaret reaches up to take his hand, pulling it to her lips for a kiss. "How was work?"

"Oh, you know, the usual." He blows out a loud breath as he looks at them both in turn. "Wonderful ideas and good intentions strangled by red tape and bureaucracy, but we're slowly hacking through it." His mouth curves in a tired smile. "Some days it's like trekking through endless jungle with no idea of where you're going, only that you know you have to get to the other side."

"Let your words be your machete, mate." Killian gets to his feet, realising he can politely make his excuses now that David is home. "That's always worked for me."

"Ah, but you're much better at it than I am." David scrubs one hand over his face. "Maybe I should bring my lawyer to the next meeting, let you do all the talking."

Killian grins. "You couldn't afford me, _mate_," he informs him with glee, David's offended glare only making his grin widen.

"We saved some dinner for you." Mary Margaret's weariness seems to have vanished in the face of her partner's arrival, and Killian feels an unfamiliar wave of envy as he watches them smile at each other. "Emma too, but yours is the one without the pearl barley."

Killian thinks of the two almost-identical plates of dinner in the refrigerator. "Spend some quality time with your missus, Dave. I'll fetch your dinner for you."

His friend is already reclining on the couch, his fair head close to Mary Margaret's. "Pro bono, I hope?"

Killian laughs as he heads towards the kitchen. "Free of charge, I promise."

Once he's in the kitchen, he tries to distract himself with domestic tasks – putting David's dinner into the microwave and unearthing the small container of leftover sauce to be reheated as well – but finds himself replaying Mary Margaret's words over and over.

She hadn't said anything to Emma _at the time. _Which implies, he thinks as he methodically removes the plate of food from the microwave and replaces it with the container of mustard sauce, that she _has _shared that conversation with Emma at some point in time.

He stares unseeingly at the glowing green countdown on the microwave's timer. He has the feeling he's gotten all he can out of Mary Margaret on the subject (he knows a tight-lipped witness when he sees one), and all he seems to have done tonight is to muddy the waters further. If Emma has always known that he'd wanted to ask her out back in the day, as the saying goes, then she'd have no reason to fear being rebuffed if her feelings for him had changed. Nor would she have any reason to keep any attraction she felt for him a secret, given that she could feel confident he had, at least at one time, felt the same way.

Moving on auto-pilot, he obeys the summons of the beeping microwave. He's just finished assembling David's belated dinner on one of the many trays the household seems to have accumulated (he avoids the ones he knows have come from Walsh's shop – it's petty, but he doesn't care) when the man himself appears in the kitchen doorway. "Wow, that smells great."

"Reheated steak, mate." He tosses a knife and fork onto the tray with a clatter. "You sure you can cope?"

David grins. "I'm so hungry, I don't care if you cooked it in the microwave to start with," he laughs, and picks up the tray, eyeing the food with obvious delight. "You didn't have to do all this, but I'm very glad you did, because I am _starving._"

"Good deeds take it out of a man," Killian tells him, wiping the counter top with a damp cloth. "Now go spend some time with that pretty schoolteacher of yours, will you? I'll be off to bed soon."

David pauses in the doorway, tray in hand, his smile dangerously shrewd. "Not going to wait up for Emma? I thought you two had a tea and cookie ritual thing going."

Killian tightens his grip on the damp dishcloth he's holding, remembering the last time they observed that particular ritual. "She's pulling an all-nighter, and I need my beauty sleep, I'm afraid."

David laughs, shaking his head, then he's gone, the sound of his footsteps gradually fading. Killian looks at the time, then at the refrigerator. Mary Margaret was right about one thing. Emma has been working brutally long hours lately, and he knows damned well that she will have been eating those ridiculous pop tarts in her car (without even toasting them first, which merely compounds the horror of it all) instead of having actual meals. He suspects that her assigned plate of leftovers will go ignored in favour of something faster and less complicated, and the thought spurs him into action.

Perhaps other adults without children have a collection of plastic lunchboxes, perhaps it's simply a by-product of sharing a house with a schoolteacher, but he is spoiled for choice when it comes to finding a suitable container. He manages to find one without too many embellishments, then proceeds to turn Emma's uneaten dinner of steak, vegetables and the dreaded pearl barley into something she can easily eat while she's in her car or at her desk at work. He chops everything into manageable bite-sized pieces, then finds an unused takeout fork, wrapping it carefully in a paper napkin.

He knows he's being ridiculous and there's a chance she will ignore this version of her leftover dinner as well, but he doesn't care. He's on a mission now, and he will see it through to the end.

He's about to slide the container back onto the top shelf of the refrigerator when he spies the pile of post-it notes on the counter top, next to the cup of pens and scissors and other random items that always seem to accumulate in such places. Grinning, he reaches for the bright pink pad of post-it notes and a thick black marking pen, deciding he might as well make his efforts as hard to ignore as possible.

(He's never been so tempted to add an X to the bottom of a note in his life.

He decides against it, because there's asking for trouble, and then there's Asking for Trouble.)

A moment later, he's in the bathroom cleaning his teeth, depressingly certain in the knowledge that Emma Swan isn't about to invade his privacy, mentally going over his schedule for the next day. Fridays can be an unpredictable time in his line of work. He very rarely has meetings with new clients (decisions relating to one's matrimonial status tend to be made after a harrowing weekend, he's found) but he does expect the usual flurry of last-minute calls involving conflict over access and visitation arrangements. Business as usual, which is always a good thing, and yet he already knows that his heart won't be in it.

He bids the entwined couple on the couch a swift goodnight as he makes his way to his bedroom. They spare him a smile and a wave (at least David managed to eat his dinner before the cuddling began, Killian notes as he spies the empty plate on the coffee table) and he finally escapes to his room and solitude, the heavy thunk of his door shutting out the soft murmuring sounds of penguins and housemates alike.

If he lived alone, he'd never have to escape into his own room to find solitude, he muses. Indeed, solitude would be all around him, from the moment he walked in the door to the moment he fell into bed.

It's not a comforting thought.

He sets the alarm on his phone, not bothering to resist the urge to once again look at the picture that Emma had snapped in their bathroom. As always, heat lurches in the pit of his stomach at the sight of her mouth fused to his and the way her eyes are closed in what he _knows_ damned well is the same pleasure that had wracked his own body.

_God_, he wants her.

He wants her more than he's ever wanted any woman, but that's not the worst of it.

He's in love with her, and he has a date with another woman on Saturday night.

Not for the first time, he thinks of his brother's succinct summary of the situation. _You're fucked, mate. _

Killian sweeps the bloody photo away from his sight with a swipe of his thumb, turning out his bedside light with an irritated hand. There has to _some _way to unfuck his life, to put it in the coarsest of terms. He's untangled far more complicated emotional webs than this in the line of duty without breaking a sweat. Surely he can finally put all his years of experience dealing with the irrational decisions of the human heart into good use for his own benefit for once?

He breathes out heavily as he stares at his bedroom ceiling through the darkness. If the term _physician, heal thyself_ has a legal variant, surely it's the position in which he's found himself. Solving everyone's problems but his own has been a very handy way of keeping those problems at bay, but enough is enough, and it's time to finally stop and pay the sodding piper.

A week ago tonight, Emma had kissed him. He thinks of her soft words, a match for the soft despair in her eyes as she'd gazed at him, her hands fisted tightly in the front of his shirt, as if she couldn't bear to let him go. _I'm saying I __really __hate seeing women at our breakfast table the morning after you've fucked them._

He closes his eyes, his heart filling with equal measures of triumph and frustration, because he's now certain what's between them is far from one-sided. She wants him, too. Perhaps she even loves him, if only a little. She just can't bring herself to admit it when she's sober.

It occurs to him, on the cusp of sleep, that perhaps removing himself from the apartment isn't necessarily admitting defeat, but issuing a challenge instead. Perhaps it won't be the end, but a beginning.

There's only one way to find out.

* * *

><p>Emma stares at her boss, hoping she doesn't look as overwhelmed as she suddenly feels. "You need me to go to New York tonight?" There's a squeak in her voice, and she hastily clears her throat. "I thought you said Sunday at the earliest, and <em>that<em> was a maybe."

Kathryn gives her an apologetic smile. "I know, and I'm sorry if it's messed up your plans." She pauses, just long enough for Emma to know what's coming, then taps a thoughtful finger to her lips. "I _could_ ask Leroy to take the job, but-"

"No, it's fine."

Leroy is a middle-aged freelancer who takes pride in knocking almost all his skips unconscious during a takedown. When he's sober, he's a bad-tempered nitpicker. When he's had a drink, he's still a bad-tempered nitpicker, only louder. Kathryn only uses him when they're desperately short-handed, so Emma knows it's an empty threat, but it's still enough to prod her into agreeing to head out of town two days earlier than she expected.

Which means, of course, unless she can perform a miracle and arrange to see Walsh and Killian (in that order) this afternoon and have a heart-felt conversation with both of them in turn, sorting out her personal life is going to have to wait until she's done in New York.

_Crap._

She tells Kathryn that it's all good, waits for the other woman to email through the file, then spends the next hour reading, alternating between sipping coffee and water. It's mid-afternoon, and maybe she should eat something too, but she's not hungry, not after the pile of leftovers she'd eaten before leaving the house this morning.

She couldn't _not_ eat it, not after discovering that ridiculous lunchbox Killian had left for her. Her stomach had been churning with anxiety as much as her head had been, but something about those stupid little bite-sized pieces had made her heart ache, and she'd eaten every scrap.

(The post-it note is on her dresser in her bedroom. She couldn't bear to throw it out.)

The New York job seems simple enough. Woman defrauds her employer to the tune of two hundred grand, employer gets wise (and smart) and employs a forensic accountant on the lowdown to go through the books. Woman is caught, admits her guilt, is charged and subsequently granted bail. She'd claimed to have only a few hundred bucks left of the money she'd stolen, so enter Midas Bonds. Court date arrives, the woman doesn't show.

_Big surprise,_ Emma thinks. Her target has been living a life of luxury on her employer's dime, and the prospect of a ten by ten jail cell being her next home obviously wasn't in her plans. Seriously, Emma doesn't know what some of these judges are smoking, because there are some people who just _shouldn't_ be released on bail. Then again, if they weren't, she and Kathryn and all the other staff would be out of a job.

_Circle of life_, she muses, making herself smile as she goes over the section of the report that details the woman's last known movements. She'd used her ATM card only that morning in Brooklyn, which explains the accelerated time frame of the job, and Emma casts a resentful glance at the woman's mugshot. Long, dark hair in no particular style and a face that might be considered attractive if it weren't for the scowl and death-glare she's aiming at the camera lens.

Kathryn's sources in New York have been more than thorough, and there are half a dozen cheap motels and boarding houses listed as possible places to run the woman to ground. Thankfully, Emma won't be staying in any of them. One of the many things she appreciates about Kathryn is that the woman knows what it's like to be a female traveling alone, and always books their accommodation with extreme prejudice.

_Right, _Emma thinks as she closes down her laptop._ Go home, pack, call Walsh to let him know, send a message explaining her change of plans to Mary Margaret, drive the three and a half hours to New York, check into hotel, get some sleep. Tomorrow morning, start scouring the city to this light-fingered bitch as soon as possible, then get home before the madness of Thanksgiving traffic descends on the roads. Once you're home, make a date to see Walsh, tell him that you need to end things, then try to get Killian alone and (possibly) make a fool of yourself by telling him that you're in love with him._

Emma lowers her head to her now closed laptop, and only the price of said piece of equipment stops her from gently smacking her forehead against it. The part where she finds and apprehends a felon in a city of millions suddenly seems like the easy bit.

Before she can even think of coming clean with Killian, she has to end things with Walsh, in person, and not just with a fleeting five minute conversation, either. She owes him that much. She might not love him the way she's supposed to, but she doesn't want to hurt him. God knows, she's been in his shoes more than once. She suddenly feels like she's five years old again, asking one of her many foster carers if the iodine that's about to be applied to her scraped knee is going to sting. _This is going to hurt, isn't it?_

She's pretty sure it is.

* * *

><p>The text from David arrives just before five o'clock on Friday afternoon, and he happily puts aside the letter he's reading (it seems that his client Sean's pompous windbag of an estranged father has managed to find a lawyer who is even more of a pompous windbag than himself) to pick up his phone.<p>

_Emma has had to go to New York on a job and Mary Margaret wants a quiet night at home to catch up on her reading. Want to grab a beer after work? _

Killian frowns. Emma hadn't said anything to him about the possibility of going out of town. Then again, their communication lately has been patchy, to say the least. He dashes off a quick reply to David, telling him he'd be delighted and if the other man wanted to make his way to Killian's office, they could patronize one of the many fine drinking establishments nearby.

_As long as I don't have to put up with Whale._

He grins. It would almost be worth asking Victor to join them, just to see the look on David's face. However, the radio silence from their old college friend is a strong indication that his attempt at snaring that comely waitress last week was successful, and Killian doubts he'd have a spare evening to spend with mere mortals such as themselves.

He leaves his office a little after six, shaking his head at the sight of the fetchingly dressed mountain man waiting for him in the foyer. David's working day obviously didn't involve trying to schmooze any government officials on behalf of the shelter, so he's dressed for comfort rather than style. Which means, of course, he's dressed as though they're going on a camping trip to Alaska, making Killian cast a wry smile downwards at his own suit and overcoat ensemble. "You feeling the cold today, mate?"

David shoots him a withering glance even as he claps him on the shoulder. "It's easier than carrying the damned thing," he mutters, tugging at the front of his hooded coat. "Once we're inside whatever overpriced joint you drag me into, I can take it off."

"So suspicious so early in the evening." Killian laughs as they make their way out of the foyer and onto the street. "You asked _me_ to meet you for a beer, remember?" David looks unconvinced, and Killian shakes his head. "I won't lead you astray, Dave, I promise."

"That'll be a nice change," his friend mutters, his face lighting up a few moments later when Killian stops outside a no-frills bar that's one of his personal favourites. No pomegranate martinis and no bloody mason jars, either. "I apologise. I shouldn't have doubted you."

Killian does an eye-roll of his own as he pushes open the heavy glass door. "One day you'll learn, mate."

Once they're installed in a booth and David has shrugged out of his heavy coat, Killian wonders how long he'll have to wait before the other man's real reason for meeting him for a drink outside the apartment is revealed.

As it turns out, not too long at all.

David waits until they're both in possession of a beer, then clinks his bottle against Killian's and gives him a bright smile. "You're an idiot, you know that?"

Killian feels his eyes widen. "Sorry?"

David takes a long sip of beer, and puts his elbows on the table, leaving forward and fixing Killian with a disconcertingly steady gaze. "Mary Margaret tells me that you're planning to move out."

Killian takes a sip of his own beer, hoping to ease a suddenly dry mouth and ruing the fact that he didn't spot such an obvious trap sooner. Mary Margaret has expressed a wish for a quiet Friday night at home many a time, but never once has that sent her boyfriend out into the streets in search of beer. "I didn't realise you felt so strongly about having my company around the place, mate."

David sighs. "I'm not talking about me and you know it." Picking up his beer bottle, he tilts the neck of it towards Killian, as if to reinforce his point. "This is about Emma."

He might argue and emote for nine hours a day, Killian thinks, but that's what the firm pays him to do. He's off the clock now, and he's really not in the mood for a lecture, even from a good friend. Perhaps _especially _from a good friend. "You know, I'm starting to think you had an ulterior motive in asking me out, Dave."

He may has well have saved his breath, because David just powers ahead. "Has it ever occurred to you to sit down and tell her exactly how you feel about her?"

The pleasant tang of beer on his tongue suddenly sours. It seems his secret is no longer his to keep, if indeed it ever was. "How I feel about her?"

David makes an exasperated sound as he lifts his beer to his lips. "Are you really going to sit there and try to convince me that you despise Walsh because of his questionable business practices and not because you're in love with his girlfriend?"

Killian leans back against the padded seat of the booth, admitting defeat in more ways than one. He could protest his innocence until he's blue in the face, but he knows there's no point, not with David scenting after the truth like a sodding bloodhound. "There's no point in saying anything to her, mate."

His friend stares at him. "How did you even get that law degree?" The amount of scorn the usually mild-mannered David manages to inject into the words takes him by surprise. "Seriously, you got it in a box of cereal, didn't you?"

"In case you hadn't noticed, Emma is already in a serious relationship with a man, and it isn't me." He reaches for the small laminated menu listing the bar snacks, dully thinking that perhaps he can shut David up with the right amount of chicken wings. "Given we share a roof, she's had more than ample opportunity to be seduced by my good looks and charming personality." He tosses the menu across the table to David, who catches it on instinct, it seems. "I'm not what she wants, mate."

Saying the words actually _hurts, _like he's been winded_. Bloody hell._ He glances down at the polished surface of the table, taking a deep breath before he looks up at his friend. When he does, just as he had when he talked with Mary Margaret the night before, he sees something that looks a lot like indecision sweeping across David's face. "Look, will you promise me something?"

He's not in the mood for a lecture _or _making promises, and because it's David, he doesn't bother sugarcoating the fact. "I doubt it."

David, as expected, returns the favour. "Before you go and do something stupid like sign a lease on another apartment, will you at least talk to Emma?"

"And what do you suggest I say to her?" He can hear the sharp frustration in his voice, but quite frankly, he doesn't care. "Darling, I love you, let's run off into the sunset and live happily ever after?" He finishes his beer in what feels like three gulps, then smacks the empty bottle onto the table top with more force than polite society expects. "Real life doesn't work that way, mate."

David looks pained. "Look, I'm sorry to be so pushy, but the four of us have a really good thing going," he says in a quiet, almost sad voice. "I'd hate for us to go our separate ways because _some _people can't bring themselves to have an open, honest dialogue with someone they obviously care about."

Killian says nothing for a moment, feeling off-kilter and twitchy, as though David's words are scratching at his skin. Finally, he clears his throat. "If that's your idea of an apology, Dave, I'm afraid it's fallen far short of acceptable." He lifts his hand to signal the closest staff member, suddenly feeling the need to get well and truly shitfaced. "There's one way to make it up to me, though."

His friend's expression is wary, and with good cause. "What's that?"

"I intend to get nicely trashed this evening, and I don't plan on doing it alone." The waiter has come to their table and is waiting with ill-disguised impatience. "Two neat Jamesons, mate. No ice," he tells the kid, vaguely enjoying the look on David's face as his friend realises the implications of the order. "That okay with you, Dave?"

David looks as though he's very sorry he forsook the safety of their apartment for this den of iniquity, but he finally nods. "Sure. Why not?" As the waiter saunters away, he runs an anxious hand through his hair. "Tomorrow's Saturday, right?"

Killian gives him a tight smile. "That's the spirit."

* * *

><p><em>Hi, sweetheart. Uh, I guess you're still on the road and not answering your cell, just like the good driver you are. I just got your voicemails. I'm so sorry I wasn't available when you called. These meetings are killing me, I swear. Do you know how long you'll be out of town? I can't believe I missed my chance to kiss you goodbye. I'll just have to look forward to giving you a very warm welcome when you get home. Good luck catching the bad guy, sweetheart and uh, call me when you get this? Love you. <em>

Emma listens to Walsh's voicemail one last time, then presses delete. She'd called his cell phone four times before she'd had to hit the road this afternoon, but she hadn't managed to catch him. Her own conscience isn't exactly clear, but she can't help wondering what the hell was so important that he only noticed he had four missed calls from her more than three hours after she'd tried to reach him.

She'd had more luck reaching Mary Margaret than she had Walsh. Her friend had made sympathetic noises that she'd had to go out of town sooner than expected, then asked if Emma knew when she'd be back, and if she'd made any plans for the holiday. Knowing the other woman was worrying that she'd be alone over the Thanksgiving weekend (something that Mary Margaret could probably never imagine for herself), Emma had made a point of cheerfully telling her not to worry, that she was actually looking forward to a few days of doing absolutely nothing.

_"__I'll be back before you and David leave to visit your Moms, okay?" Well, she sure hoped she would be, but nothing was ever certain in her line of work. _

_"__I just hate the idea of you being alone on Thanksgiving." Somehow, the obvious concern in her friend's voice managed to make Emma feel as though she was five years old. "Are you sure you don't want to come with us? Ruth and Ava would love to see you!"_

_Emma smiled into the phone. Mary Margaret Blanchard, the eternal optimist, not even considering the fact that someone might not appreciate an unexpected houseguest for the holidays. "I'll be fine, I promise. At this point, I'm planning to sleep for four days straight."_

Mary Margaret had said a few more things about Walsh having to work on Black Friday, and Emma had made all the right noises, and then they'd said goodbye, with Emma promising to text each night in accordance with their old college 'proof of life' agreement.

After she'd finished talking to Mary Margaret, Emma had sat on her unmade bed for almost ten minutes, knowing she should be packing, her phone cradled in her hand as she'd stared into space. She'd wanted to call Killian, but it had been mid-afternoon on a work day and he'd either would have been in a meeting or had his 'work voice' on, and she hadn't wanted to have some weird phone conversation that would haunt her the entire way to New York.

She'd finished packing her bag in record time, making sure she had her gun license within easy reach before she'd made an extremely half-hearted attempt at making her bed. When she was done, she'd glanced around her room, checking for anything she might have forgotten. When she'd seen the bright pink post-it note with the ridiculous (and adorable, she's not going to lie) drawing of the swan on her dresser, it had occurred to her that she hadn't actually said _thank you_ for her neatly packed leftovers.

A few moments later, she'd slipped a post-it note (lime green this time) underneath Killian's closed bedroom door. Then, before she could retrieve it and tear it into a million pieces (and then eat the evidence), she'd left the apartment, dragging her wheeled suitcase behind her, the November air cold against her face.

The drive had taken her almost four hours, and she'd devoted more than one stretch of highway to wildly veering from thinking that leaving that note had been the worst idea she'd ever had to wondering if it would make him smile when he saw it.

(Maybe she should have flown after all. She would have had less time to brood.)

Now, she dials Walsh's number, staring unseeingly at the generic artwork on the wall of her hotel room as she listens to his cell phone ring unanswered at the other end, then switch through to his voicemail.

She doesn't leave a message. What the hell would she say? _Hi, how's things? That's great. Hey, guess what? When I get back to Boston, I'm planning to break up with you because I'm in love with another man. Bye!_

Tossing her phone onto the empty side of the queen-sized bed, she sinks down into the mattress, her hands tucked behind her head. Nine o'clock on a Friday night, and she's in a pretty decent hotel in one of the most amazing cities in the world. _Too bad she's got no one to share it with_, she thinks darkly, suddenly feeling very far away from everything and everyone. It's a strange sensation, and not something that usually troubles her on an out of town trip before.

Emma closes her eyes. She'd always told herself that home was a place that, if you left it, you just _missed_ it. Missed it so much that there was no room for doubt about where you truly belonged.

It's not Boston she's missing right now, though, or her boyfriend of almost two years.

It takes a very long time for her to fall asleep.

* * *

><p>"This is your doing, I suppose?"<p>

Killian squints in the direction of the irritated female voice, wishing the owner would show some respect for the thumping in his temples. The knock on his bedroom door had been brutal enough. "You'll have to be specific, love."

The blurred outline of Mary Margaret moves into his field of vision, but even blurred, he can see that her hands are on her hips. "David's lying on the bathroom floor, muttering something about Irish whiskey being the Devil's handiwork."

"Ah." Closing his eyes, he rolls onto his side, the wretched pounding in his brain easing slightly as he mashes his face against the cool fabric of his pillow. It's Saturday, thank God, and he has until seven o'clock tonight to turn back into a respectable human being. Until then, he plans to wallow in self-pity and nausea. "Now that you mention it, I do seem to recall your man making some boast about being able to match me drink for drink."

He hears her _humph _of disapproval. "We_ were_ going antiquing this morning, but that's not going to happen now, obviously."

Despite his current state, a smile tugs at his lips. "I'm sure he'll be devastated."

"You'll keep, Jones." His bedroom door is closed with what he can only describe as an affronted clunk, and there is finally silence, blissful silence.

It's after noon the next time he opens his eyes, and the lack of pounding in his head is a welcome discovery. To his relief, his usual ritual (however drunkenly performed) of drinking as much water as he could stomach before falling into bed seems to have done the trick. That doesn't mean he isn't gagging for a hot shower and coffee, though, and he slowly gets to his feet, relieved anew that he seems to have reached the level of 'vaguely human' without too much effort.

There's a piece of paper on the floor near his closed bedroom door, a post-it note so luridly green that it hurts his eyes. _Takeout menu? Bar tab? _Bending to pick it up (he may be feeling vaguely human, but his head still remonstrates with him sternly that he'd do such a thing), he stares at it, his sluggish pulse immediately doing an odd little jig when he recognizes Emma's handwriting.

She's drawn two male faces that he can only assume are supposed to be his own, given the dark hair and eyebrows. One of them is sporting a short beard similar to the one that graces his own chin. The other has a ridiculous growth in the style he has seen far too often in the city for his liking lately. Below these visual treats are some scribbled (obviously in haste) words.

**_Friends don't let friends grow hipster beards._**

Rubbing his palm against his admittedly bristly chin, he turns the post-it note over, his grin widening.

**_Rubadub dub, thanks for the grub. _**

He's not a sentimental person, but all the same, he finds himself tucking the note into the top drawer of his bedside table, trying very hard to ignore the fact that he's happier at the discovery of this scrap of paper than the prospect of meeting Jane for a drink tonight.

_It's just a drink to catch up and bury the hatchet_, he reminds himself even as he rolls his eyes at his own optimism. _It's not a date._

He goes in search of his beloved espresso machine, knowing he can only hope that Jane is on the same page. If not, well, he'll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

* * *

><p>Just before midnight on Saturday, Emma strips off her clothes, dumping them on the floor of the hotel bathroom before stepping into the shower stall and setting the hot water to 'stun'. She's freezing, frustrated and furious, in that order.<p>

_So much for their New York contact's solid intel,_ she fumes silently. Her mark hadn't been sighted in any of the six hotels their contact had insisted she'd been using on a rotating basis for the last few weeks. Emma has the sinking feeling that the damned woman has managed to alter her appearance just enough (a change of hair style and wardrobe will only do so much, but the real pros know how to change the way they present and carry themselves so that even their loved ones would pass them on the street), and that's never good news.

_She should have let Kathryn give Leroy this job_, she thinks mutinously as she lets the hot water run over the back of her neck and her shoulders, hoping to ease muscle stiff with inactivity. _Let him sit outside freaking budget hotels for hours with nothing to show for it._

The heat in the Bug had been on the fritz again, and there's only so much warmth a person can generate by cradling (and drinking) cup after cup of hot coffee. Now she's over-caffeinated and over-tired and would be handling both things a lot better if she wasn't so twitchy about everything she's had to put on hold back home.

Wrapping herself in the hotel-supplied robe, she stretches out on the bed and prepares to dull her senses with a few hours of in-house movies, trying very hard not to look at the mini-bar. She might be getting really tired of loneliness the last thing she remembers feeling before falling asleep every night, but she's not going to start drinking alone.

Not tonight, anyway. She'll see how she feels when Monday comes and she's still stuck traipsing through fleapits of hotels asking night managers to imagine the woman in the photograph with blonde hair instead. Maybe on Monday, she'll have to resort to the miniature bottles of vodka and whiskey, but until then, she'll stick with watching Pirates of the Caribbean. Oh, and trying not to think about Killian's habit of impersonating Jack Sparrow whenever she's in a bad mood in an attempt to make her laugh. _Savvy, Swan? _

_Shit._

Breathing out a defeated sigh, Emma puts one hand over her eyes. Maybe _one _tiny bottle of vodka isn't out of the question.

* * *

><p>It's been almost a month since he's seen her, but Jane is just as attractive as he remembers. Her hazel eyes light up when he arrives at the wine bar, one hand raised in a wave as she rises to her feet. Just a smidge shorter than himself, she merely has to expectantly incline her head an inch or two for him to brush her cheek with his lips.<p>

It's not quite the tone he'd like to set for the evening, but he likes to think of himself as a gentleman, so he chooses politeness over awkwardness. It is, however, possibly the quickest 'hello' kiss he's ever bestowed on anyone. "Evening, love."

Her smile is distinctly nervous. "I was starting to think you might have changed your mind."

He takes a few seconds to absorb her words. He's dead on time, not even a moment past the hour, and his heart sinks. It appears one of them is taking this 'just a drink' catch-up more seriously than the other. "I'm a man of my word, remember?"

"I do remember." She gives him a sheepish smile of apology. "Speaking of which, I _am s_orry about the whole camping debacle."

"No apologies necessary." He waves a hand towards the interior of the wine bar. "Now, shall we have a drink to celebrate our new truce?"

They find a table and trade industry gossip, both of them seemingly determined to sidestep any lingering awkwardness due to their last meeting. Sadly, his memory has served him well on another point. Jane is pleasant company (and very easy on the eyes, he's not going to lie), but their conversation is just as lackluster as he remembers. It's not her fault, nor is it his, it's just an unfortunate, unavoidable truth.

When they were dating, he'd solved that problem by taking her to bed. He doesn't want to go down that path, though, not tonight, even though he suspects she'd be more than agreeable to such a development.

(He has to wonder, though, why he'd suggested this particular bar when he'd called her this morning. It's only three blocks from his place, which would make any such romantic dalliances extremely convenient.

Old habits die hard, obviously.)

One drink turns into two, and he can literally see her nervousness seeping away. Finally, she stops twisted her fingers together and leans back in her seat. "Are you going home for Thanksgiving?"

"Sadly, no." He hides a smile. Given she's a highly intelligent fellow solicitor with a reputation for dissecting even the most watertight of prenuptial agreements (they'd met at a networking breakfast), he's not sure why she'd think he'd bother flying all the way home to London to celebrate an American holiday. "I'm toying with the idea of visiting my brother and his family early in the new year, though."

This is news to _him _(and to Liam, he suspects) but it fills the conversational void nicely. A little too nicely, perhaps, because Jane looks at him over the top of her wine glass in a thoughtful way that he remembers well. "I'll be in town too." She gives him a rueful smile. "We've finally got a court date for that Anderson matter I told you about."

He grins. He's painfully familiar with the spectacularly bad timing often encountered in their particular field of expertise. "Let me guess, it's the Monday after Thanksgiving?"

"Close." She sighs. "It's the Tuesday, so I'll be working most of the weekend." She darts him a hopeful glance, long pale fingers flashing against her dark bob as she tucks her hair behind one ear. "I don't suppose you'd like to have dinner one night?" Her smile is nervous once again. "No strings attached, just maybe some turkey and candied yams."

Killian hesitates, and not only due to the mention of the dreaded candied yams. He may be growing weary of his empty social calendar, but he's not sure this is the wisest course of action. Then again, given that he's quite certain Emma will be spending most of the holiday weekend in Monkey Boy's company, the alternative is rattling around an empty apartment. He's normally a man who's content with his own company, but lately, he has found his own company to be decidedly lacking.

"Why not?"

An hour later, he kisses her goodnight as they stand outside the wine bar. It's a soft, slow kiss that lingers longer than he'd planned, and the quietly delighted smile she flashes him when it's over sends a wave of guilt washing over him. She says something about calling him before Thursday, then she's slipping into a taxi, leaving him to brood the short distance to the apartment, his heart at war with his sense of self-preservation, along with a healthy input from his libido.

She's beautiful and intelligent and he already knows that if they fell back into bed together, the sex would be grand. There's just one problem, aside from the possibility of once again being asked to go hiking.

She's not Emma.

* * *

><p>Monday bleeds into Tuesday, Tuesday into Wednesday. Promising leads turn into dead ends, and her phone conversations with Kathryn are becoming increasingly fraught with frustration. Not with her boss, but with the situation, something the other woman understands. "Stick at it, you know how it works. Keep digging long enough, you'll run her to ground."<p>

"If it takes much longer, I'll be eating Christmas dinner from room service," Emma grumbles, but Kathryn only laughs.

"In that case, just think of the amazingly generous Christmas bonus your wonderful employer will be giving you this year."

"Seriously?"

"I never promise anything I don't deliver."

Emma grins tiredly into the phone. "Neither do I."

"That's my girl. Now get back out there and bring this one home."

Her phone calls to Walsh haven't been nearly as productive. They've spoken every day, but their conversations have been rushed, and she knows it's not just her who is distracted. She knows it's his busiest time of the year, and it's pretty damned hypocritical of her to feel as though she's being neglected, given the conversation she's planning to have with him when she gets back to Boston, but she can't help the way she feels.

She texts Mary Margaret every night, checking in sometime between scoffing takeout while sitting on her bed and crawling underneath the covers. Every night, she's tempted to ask after Killian. Every night, she thinks better of it, and their conversations remain safely Killian-free.

That is, until Wednesday morning, when Mary Margaret calls to wish her a happy Thanksgiving and that they'll see her on Sunday night when they get home. "I still hate the thought of you being there all by yourself."

_You and me both_, Emma thinks but doesn't say. "I've got a couple of new leads to go with today," she assures her friend. "With any luck, I'll be able to hit the road tomorrow morning and be home in time to reheat a turkey sandwich while it's still officially Thanksgiving."

"Oh, Emma, driving in that dreadful holiday traffic? You'll be stuck for hours.'"

Emma wonders if David and Mary Margaret actually made a pact to fuss over her as though they're her parents when she moved in, or if just something that comes naturally to them. "I'll be fine, I promise."

She hears the other woman sigh. "You know, this place hasn't been the same without you."

Emma can't help smiling at that. "Killian not pulling his weight on the conversational front?"

"Very below average, to be honest," her friend offers in a dry voice. "Not to mention every time I see him he's got his head in his laptop, looking at those real estate websites."

Emma swallows hard, her stomach clenching coldly. "He's still planning on moving out, then?"

"Seems that way." The other woman sounds distracted, and Emma knows she's probably checking the time and thinking about everything she and David have to accomplish before they leave. "Oh, did I tell you he went out with Jane on Saturday night?"

Emma closes her eyes, the lump in her throat seeming to swell to the size of a fist. "No, you didn't tell me that."

"I wasn't surprised. You know how he is." Mary Margaret's tone is light and cheerful, and each word is like a skewer in Emma's heart. "He doesn't like to be without female company for too long."

Somehow, Emma manages to wrap up the conversation without making a complete idiot of herself, then earns another gold star by not throwing her phone across the room. "Fuck." She digs through her suitcase with the vague notion of finding a clean sweater, her hands not quite steady. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck._"

The worst part is that she knows she's got no right to be angry, even if she feels as though she wants to punch something very hard. Repeatedly. She should have said something before she left town. She should have written something actually worthwhile on that fucking post-it note instead of wasting five minutes drawing hipster beards.

Her phone rings again, and she snatches it up from where she'd dropped it on the rumpled bed. She barely registers that it's Walsh calling before she answers it, her heart pounding as she barks out a greeting. "Yes?"

"Uh, hi?" Walsh sounds faintly confused. "Emma?"

She takes a deep breath. "Yep, it's me. Sorry, just banged my toe."

"Sweetheart, you sound as though you're ready to start climbing the walls."

She's obviously a terrible person, because the obvious concern in his voice is immediately comforting. "You have no idea."

"Well, I have _one_ idea that might cheer you up."

Emma sits on the edge of the bed, her legs stretched out in front of her. "You've found my bail skip lurking in your store and you've apprehended her for me?"

Walsh laughs. "I wish I could say yes, but all I'm offering is to take you to dinner tomorrow night when you get back into town."

"Walsh-"

"Come on, we'll go to that place we had our first date together. It's Thanksgiving, we should celebrate."

Emma actually feels her spine stiffen with tension. The conversation she needs to have with Walsh isn't the type of conversation she wants to have in the middle of a nice restaurant. "I don't know if I'll be back by then."

"Think of it as extra incentive to track down your perp. Is that the right word, perp?"

"It's one of them, sure." She runs her hand through her hair, wondering if her life is ever going to stop being complicated. "Okay, yes to dinner, but only on the proviso that I might have to cancel if I'm not done here."

(She can always cancel, she thinks, even if she _does_ catch up with her embezzling wannabe Hitchcock heroine in time.)

"I'll be counting the hours. Talk to you soon, sweetheart."

Emma gets to her feet, suddenly filled with resolve. She can't do this. She can't let him keep thinking that everything's okay when it's so far from okay that she can hardly stand the guilt of listening to his happy plans. "Walsh, wait. Can we talk for a minute?"

"I gotta go, Em, I'm sorry. I've got the West Coast people on the other line. We can talk tomorrow night, okay? Love you."

Then he's gone, and if he'd noticed that Emma didn't say a word about _love_ in return, he didn't bother mentioning it. She carefully puts her phone on the bed, then digs a clean sweater and underwear out of her suitcase. Her real life is happening without her in another city, and if she doesn't get back there soon, there might be some things she's too late to fix.

(She's not talking about Walsh.)

As she dresses, she fires up her laptop, skimming through her skip's file and poring over her photographs one more time. There's a brittle energy surging through her, a renewed sense of urgency scratching at her skin. As she pulls on her boots, she gives one of the 8 x 10 headshots of her target a grim smile. "So, you want to play hide and seek?" She zips up one boot, then the other, then slips her phone into her back pocket. "Lady, you have _no_ idea what I'm capable of."

* * *

><p>His busy caseload is a blessing in disguise. After his drink with Jane, the next few days pass quickly enough, despite the odd feeling of being caught in limbo, waiting for something he can't quite name.<p>

At least with Emma out of town, he doesn't have to worry about any awkward late night encounters in the hallway, or feel as though he needs to be 'on' every time he walks through his own front door. If he didn't miss her so much, he'd welcome the break from the strange tension that's been brewing between them.

But he does miss her. He misses the way she hogs their shared bathroom, the way she hums obscure indie pop songs and an hour later he finds himself humming the same damned song on his way to work. He misses the smell of her perfume trailing behind her as she races at the door, late as usual. He misses the sound of her voice and the warmth of her smile and the way his pulse would start to race whenever she came into the room.

There are not enough court documents in the legal system to make him forget how much he misses her.

Before he knows it, it's Wednesday morning, and both his remaining housemates have the day off and are making last minute preparations for their road trip to visit both their mothers in turn. David's just taken the last of the luggage down to his truck when Killian looks at his watch with a frown. "Well, I must head off. Not all of us have the luxury of lazing around today, sadly. You and Dave have a good time." He ruffles Mary Margaret's dark hair, and is rewarded with her customary glare. Her smile ruins the effect, though, as does the kiss she presses on his cheek.

"Please don't tell me that you're going to work all weekend."

"Some of it, but never fear, milady, I plan to schedule a decent amount of sloth and gluttony as well."

She gives him a knowing smile. "Are you seeing Jane again?"

He hesitates. The path taken by the conduit of information in this apartment is firmly entrenched, and he suspects anything he tells Mary Margaret on this particular subject will filter through to Emma. Which, he muses, might not necessarily be a bad thing. Absence does make the heart grow fonder, and all that nonsense. "We might have dinner tomorrow night."

His friend's green eyes widen. "Having Thanksgiving dinner together? That sounds serious."

"It's just dinner."

"Seriously?" Mary Margaret shakes her head at him. "I remember how Jane used to look at you whenever the two of you were here. Trust me, it's not just dinner."

_Well, that's just wonderful. _He smiles at her, leaning heavily towards diplomacy instead of the verbal route he'd truly like to take. "We'll see."

A moment later, he meets David outside their building, dusting his hands after loading the luggage. "Are you sure you're only going for five days, mate?" Killian eyes the backseat of David's truck through the window. "At least you'll be prepared if you get snowed in."

"You know, I used to be able to travel light," David shoots back, smiling. "Then I met Mary Margaret."

Killian laughs as he claps the other man on the shoulder. "I'm off to work. Hope you survive the almost-mother-in-law."

David's grin is a sly one. "And I hope _you_ pull your head out of your ass and talk to Emma when she gets back from New York."

Killian hooks his satchel over his shoulder. "Sod off," he tells his friend pleasantly, but David's grin only widens.

"Right back at you, _mate._"

* * *

><p>Wednesday proves to be another frustrating day, but Emma is determined not to give up. She's close, she can feel it. She is not leaving this city without this capture. Not even if she has to stay here another week. This job is the last hoop she has to jump through before she can go home and reclaim her life, and she is damned well going to find this woman.<p>

Thursday is, of course, Thanksgiving Day, and while there might be a festive note in the air, Emma is tired and irritable and in desperate need of a good night's sleep in her own bed. Then, just after midday, in the most unlikely of places, the miracle happens.

In the middle of a near-empty convenience store two doors down from one of the cheap hotels on Emma's list, she finally runs her prey to ground.

Emma's heartbeat quickens, but her hands are steady as she pats the cuffs beneath her jacket. She takes a deep breath, then casually saunters to stand at the woman's shoulder. "Wow, those look good." She smiles at the box of donuts the tall, red-haired woman has just placed on the counter. "I haven't tried those salted caramel ones before."

The woman hesitates, her dark eyes narrowing as she scans Emma's face. "They're not bad," she finally ventures with obvious reluctance, and Emma smiles. That expertly done auburn dye job might have cost a bomb, but the drawling voice with its New Jersey accent is an exact match for the telephone recordings included in Kathryn's file.

"Kara Tait?" The other woman's eyes widen, her nostrils flaring, and Emma quickly steps to one side, blocking her exit from the store. "Hi. I work for Midas Bonds, and we'd like to make sure you get your day in court."

The string of profanities that follows makes Emma glad that the store is mostly empty. The usual pointless tussle follows, but Emma doesn't have to break too much of a sweat before it's over. Unlike Felix Piper, Kara Tait doesn't put up much of a fight.

"Just between you and me," Emma muses aloud as she clicks the cuffs into place around the other woman's clammy wrists, "I think the red hair suits you."

Kara Tait, aka Carly Thomas, aka Karen Taylor is clearly not in the mood to discuss hair care. She is sullen and silent, and Emma isn't all that disappointed her jibe doesn't spark a lively conversation. This woman is definitely not the charming fraudster type. She's a thief who was already financially secure before she ruined a man's livelihood simply because she _could_, and Emma can't think of a better Thanksgiving gift for her former employer than to have her behind bars.

The callous bitch has blown two hundred thousand bucks of someone else's money on worthless junk, and the fact that Emma made her during a lunchtime donut buying expedition to a 7-11 only adds to the feeling of a job well done.

(She'd even managed to buy a couple of salted caramel donuts for the road.)

Two hours later, Emma is in her car and heading back towards Boston, exhausted but elated. She's already spoken to Kathryn twice, and been told in no uncertain terms not to show her face at the office until Monday morning. The holiday weekend stretches out ahead of her, shimmering like a freaking oasis in the desert.

First, though, she has to see Walsh.

She really doesn't want to go to dinner at 'their' restaurant, but putting it off will only delay the inevitable, and even if she's left alone and miserable after it's done, at least she won't be living a lie. Knowing that Mary Margaret had had a point about the holiday traffic, Emma had showered at the hotel before checking out, taking the time to do her make up and put together an outfit that didn't involve jeans and her red jacket. Okay, so she's still wearing her red jacket, but at least now she's wearing it over a short black and white dress, her legs blissfully warm in black tights and boots.

It's almost seven by the time she reaches Boston, and her latest text exchange with Walsh tells her that he'd booked a table for seven. Thanks to her prep in the hotel room, all she has to do is find a parking space, fluff out her hair and reapply her lip gloss. She doesn't know if it's weird to be worried about looking okay when you're planning to break up with your date – she's never been in this situation before – but tonight, she feels as though she needs the emotional armor.

Walsh is waiting for her inside, and to her dismay she realises he's sitting at the same table they'd had on their first date. "Sorry I'm late." He's beside her and kissing her cheek before she has the chance to catch her breath, and it's a relief to sit down, her legs suddenly feeling wobbly after the long drive. "That holiday traffic is brutal."

He smiles. "But you're here, so I guess that means you caught the guy."

He looks so pleased to see her, she almost feels her determination wavering. Almost. "So optimistic."

Still smiling, he just shrugs, handing her a menu. "If you hadn't, you'd have cancelled."

She had almost cancelled anyway, but he doesn't need to know that. "You know me too well."

"Emma Swan always gets her man." He waves his hand, and a waiter materializes out of nowhere to place a glass of red wine in front of her.

"Woman, actually", she corrects automatically, then smiles at the waiter, because it's not his fault she isn't planning on drinking anything tonight. "Thank you."

Walsh and the waiter launch into an animated discussion about the daily specials and the holiday menu. Emma sips her iced water, ignoring the wine glass. Not only does she want a clear head for what's to come, she's been driving for hours. She's too tired to chance even half a glass of wine tonight.

"Are you hungry?"

She's too tightly wound to sugar coat the truth. "Starving."

Both men smile, then go right back to discussing appetizers and entrees. Emma looks around the restaurant, letting herself zone the conversation out, telling herself that she'll wait until they've had dinner. Maybe she can convince Walsh to take a walk, or go somewhere quiet for coffee. She's personally experienced being told she's no longer wanted in a public place way too many times to inflict the same embarrassment on someone else.

They eat. No turkey appears, which is kind of disappointing, but it's all lovely and she _is_ starving and it's nice to sit at a real table with a white linen tablecloth and eat real food, instead of propped up on pillows, eating a burger.

"Something wrong with your wine?"

She quickly reassures him that the wine is fine, knowing he's likely to send it back to the sommelier if he thinks she's not enjoying it. "I'm just a little tired, I guess."

Reaching across the table, he pats her hand reassuringly, but every brush of his fingers against her skin makes her feel worse. "I'm not surprised."

Somehow, she manages to get through dinner. As they eat, he asks about the job she's just finished, then tells her about the preparations in his store for the following day. He's talkative tonight "It's why I booked a table earlier than we usually eat. I was hoping maybe we could have an early night," he adds as the waiter clears away their plates.

The unspoken question in his eyes makes Emma's heart lurch. She can't go back to his place. She can't sleep with him. She has to fix this, and she has to do it now. "Hey, do you think we could go somewhere quiet for coffee?"

"Not before we've had dessert, surely?" He grins at her as he gestures at their attentively hovering waiter. "Hope you're still hungry."

Emma stares at the ornate ice cream sundae the waiter places in front of her with a flourish, and thinks she can actually hear her stomach groan. "Walsh, I couldn't eat another bite."

He pulls his chair around the table until he's sitting beside her. "You remember our first date?" He ducks his head, trying to catch her eye. "You were being _you, _so I couldn't swing a dinner."

"Well, I _had_ just hauled off one of your employees to face the music over flashing her boobs on the subway." Despite the unease tugging at her, she smiles at the memory of the colorful language that had filled the air that day, and not all of it from her capture. "You could have been hell-bent on revenge for all I knew. I thought a daytime date would be the safest bet."

"I brought you here for lunch, which didn't stop you from ordering an ice-cream sundae, which wasn't on the menu." He tilts his head towards the kitchen, his dark eyes soft with nostalgia. "I bribed the chef. They made one up."

"I remember." Not that it matters now, but she can't resist the urge to defend her first-date self. "I was nervous, and you know how I get about ice cream when I'm nervous." He snorts softly, his smile never fading as he pushes the plate towards her. "Walsh, I'm _full_, seriously."

He turns the plate around until the elaborate pattern of drizzled sauce is closer to her. "Will you at least _look_ at it?"

She looks.

_Oh, God._

There's a diamond solitaire sitting in the middle of a swirl of chocolate Grenache.

No.

_No, no. no._

"Emma, I don't want to freak you out, but I love you. I know we've had our ups and downs lately, but we're _good _together." His dark eyes search her face, his hands tightening around hers. Her palms are cold, and she wonders dully if he's noticed. "I want to have a future together. You, me, maybe kids someday, if that's what you want."

Frozen with disbelief and a growing feeling panic, she watches as he slides off his chair and onto one knee beside her. Her face is on fire, which doesn't make sense, because her insides have literally turned to ice. She knows exactly what he's going to say, but it's still a shock to see his lips form the words.

"Emma Swan, will you marry me?"


	9. Chapter 9

He may not have grown up celebrating the holiday in question, but Killian can't deny there are several aspects of Thanksgiving that he does enjoy_. _Apart from the annual ritual of sharing football and buffalo wings with David in the lead-up to the holiday itself, the chance to acquire even more electronic gadgets he doesn't need at ludicrously discounted prices is always welcome. Of course, then there is the startling variety of foodstuffs that makes their annual (and welcome) reappearance each November.

_Apart from the candied yams, of course, _he muses with an inward shudder. He's never seen the sense in taking a perfectly decent root vegetable and covering it with marshmallow, and he doubts even another ten years of exposure to this bizarre practice will induce him to change his mind. He has no doubt that David and Mary Margaret are currently dining on any number of such dishes, along with a healthy dose of motherly fussing. As for Emma –

Pulling his phone from his pocket, he rereads the text message he'd received from Mary Margaret earlier in the day.

_Made it in one piece! Hope you and Emma haven't trashed the place yet. The weather bureau is predicting rain for the weekend there but in case it doesn't can you please water all my potted plants on the roof? Also Emma is having dinner with Walsh tonight if she gets back from NYC in time so probably won't be home until tomorrow. Hope your non-date (ha!) goes well. Happy T'giving! _

From Emma herself, he's heard nothing all week. Not a single text message or email, indeed nothing since she'd left him that ridiculous (and adorable) note before she'd left town.

Happy Thanksgiving, indeed.

Propped up at the bar, nursing an imported beer, he mindlessly crunches his way through a bowl of salted cashews, wondering if it's too late for him to slip out before Jane arrives. Not that he would do any such thing, of course. No matter how much a man might be thinking that he's made an error in judgment, it is bad form to renege on an arrangement with a lady.

Sipping his beer, he scans the main dining area once more. Alas, his first impression remains unchanged. Again, the venue isn't far from his apartment, but this time it had been of Jane's choosing. When he'd arrived, it had been impossible to ignore the ambient lighting and unobtrusively romantic music playing in the background. This was not a family restaurant by any stretch of the imagination, and as he again glances at the many couples enjoying an intimate holiday meal, he makes a silent vow never to let Mary Margaret Blanchard know just how painfully accurate her prediction had been.

_Trust me, it's not just dinner._

A delicate situation, that's for certain, and one he'll have to handle with care and diplomacy. Just as he makes this mental note, he sees Jane being ushered in his direction by the hostess. Leaving his beer half-finished, he gets to his feet and goes to greet her, brushing her cheek with a fleeting kiss, doing his best to hide his consternation. She may have been working all day, but right now she's dressed for a date, not for the office. She makes a charming picture in her pale blue dress, her dark bobbed hair swinging in a perfectly styled sweep as she turns to smile at him, confirming his suspicions that they've approached this evening from two very different directions.

"You look lovely."

"Thanks." She blushes, but he doesn't regret the compliment. He might not be interested in rekindling their relationship, but she _does_ look lovely. She smiles at him over her shoulder as they're led to their table. "I like the new vest."

"Thank you." It's not a new vest, just one that she didn't see during their brief relationship, but he feels pointing that fact out might imply he didn't rate this evening worthy of purchasing a new item of clothing. Then again, perhaps he _should_ mention it.

Then _again, _he thinks as he smiles at Jane across the table,perhaps he should have listened to Mary Margaret in the first place.

The main topics of conversation over dinner are the case on which Jane's currently working and the food, both of them harmless and devoid of any undercurrents of intimacy. Her clients are both wealthy and hyperbolic, always a demanding combination, and they spend a pleasant hour or so swapping stories from the trenches of the family law courts. Finally, as their empty plates are cleared, Jane looks him in the eye, her dark gaze steady.

"If I ask you something, will you be completely honest with me?"

_Never a promising start to any conversation_, he thinks, but he has nothing to lose here. "Of course."

She wrinkles her nose as she gestures between them. "You're not feeling this, are you?"

He looks at her, startled, the truth tumbling from his lips in the face of such a frank statement. "No. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologise," she tells him, her gaze flicking sideways, then back to his face. "You've always been straight with me about how you felt." She shakes her head as she reaches for her wine glass, her tone flat. "I'm the one who suggested we catch up to smooth things over, after all."

He feels the tension knotting his shoulders ease, the festive meal he's just finished no longer feeling as though it's lodged under his ribs. "Which we have, I hope?"

"Can't ask for more than that," she tells him, then gives him a rueful smile. "Well, I could, but there's no point, is there?"

"I'm sorry, love, it's just-" He breaks off, because standing up a dinner date might be bad form, but speaking of another woman whilst in her company is even worse. To his dismay, however, she's already giving him an uncomfortably shrewd look as the waiter hands them the dessert menus.

"I hope she appreciates you."

Once again she's taken him by surprise, and once again he's completely honest with her. "The jury's still out on that one, I'm afraid."

"I think I'll pass on dessert," she says a moment later, blowing out a sigh as she scans the menu. "What about you?"

"I couldn't manage a thing." He hasn't even bothered looking at the list of desserts on offer. He's not in the mood for slipping into a food coma this evening. "Perhaps just coffee?"

"Sounds good."

He looks at her, and makes a sudden decision. Now that they know exactly where they stand with each other, surely there's no reason not to be sociable. "Did you drive this evening?"

"No, I caught a taxi from the office. My car's at home."

He tilts his head towards the outside world. "Why don't you let me make you an espresso at my place, then I'll drop you home?"

She sighs. "Two hours ago, I would have been jumping for joy to get that invitation."

The pang of guilt he feels is only to be expected, but it doesn't make it any more pleasant. "And now?"

Jane's smile is a little sharp around the edges, but there's no resentment in her dark eyes. "Now I'm thinking I can get back that book I loaned you while scoring a free espresso and a ride home."

Killian grins, relieved he hasn't made an enemy this evening. "In that case, your carriage and caffeine await."

Walsh's words might be ringing in her ears, but she still can't believe he actually said them. "I, uh-" Her stomach is churning as heat crawls along her skin, rising up from her chest to her throat, making her feel as though she can't swallow, can't speak properly. "I'm sorry, I need a moment," she finally manages to choke out as she picks up her handbag, then pushes back her chair with an almost violent shove. She doesn't look at Walsh.

As soon as she's on her feet, Emma does something she hasn't done for a while.

She runs.

The cold night air seems to burn her overheated face as soon as she reaches the outside world, and it's like having a bucket of water dumped over her head. _What the fuck is she doing? Running out on Walsh, leaving him alone at their table with a freaking diamond ring swimming in chocolate syrup?_

She stops, feeling the heels of her boots bite into the cement of the sidewalk, then she hears the sound of footsteps behind her.

"I thought the worst thing that could happen was you'd say _no,_ but I never thought you'd walk out on the bill."

She closes her eyes, inhaling another lungful of cold air, then turns to face him. "Walsh-"

He's standing a few feet from her, as if he doesn't want to spook her by coming any closer. "No, no, no. I was gonna pay." His dark gaze searches her face as he holds his hands up in surrender, and she realises he's holding her leather jacket. "Are you alright?"

She presses the heel of her palm against the centre of her chest, feeling as though she's just run fifteen miles instead of fifteen feet. "I'm sorry, this wasn't-" She stops, knowing there's no way for her to say what she needs to say without hurting him. "You just took me by surprise, that's all." _That might just be the understatement of the century_, she thinks. "A_ lot_ of things are taking me by surprise lately."

Then again, maybe she's not finished with the understatements.

Walsh finally closes the gap between them, draping her jacket around her shoulders, his hands then curling around her elbows. "Look, surprise was kind of part of the plan but I can see now it was _not_ a great plan."

The subtle scent of his aftershave wafts around them, achingly familiar. She remembers when the lingering smell of it on one of her shirts or bath towels would give her butterflies. "I'm not a big fan of surprises."

"I know, and I'm sorry." His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, and she can feel the tension in the hands cupping her elbows. "It's just, well, it dawned on me recently that maybe the reason you didn't want to move in with me is because you needed something more from me." Just as he had at the table, he ducks his head, trying to catch her gaze. "Something more permanent."

Emma frowns, the carefully prepared speech she'd practiced on the four hour drive from New York City pushed aside by Walsh's words. "Wait, what are you saying?" She gently shakes off his touch, her eyes still locked with his. "That you asked me to _marry you_ as a way to convince me to move into your apartment?"

She hears her voice hardening with each new word, and his eyes widen in what looks a lot like panic. "No, no. I love you and I want to spend my life with you." His hand reaches for hers, and she lets him take it, her thoughts bubbling like a freaking witch's cauldron. "You don't want to live in a share house forever, do you?"

She stares at him. "They're my best friends."

"But Ems, you're almost thirty."

Beneath her confusion, a flicker of anger flares into life. "What the hell has that got to do with anything?"

"Look, I understand that you're trying to recreate the family home you never had with these people. I get it." His tone is gentle, but it still grates on her like fingernails on a blackboard, because he _doesn't _get it. "But sweetheart, in the end, we both know that it's not going to last."

The flicker of anger begins to glow more brightly, burning away her indecision, and she tugs her hand out of his grasp. "What do you mean?"

"You know as well as I do that David and Mary Margaret are the married-with-kids type, and Jones isn't the kind of guy who'll want to stick around and babysit you once those two set up house on their own."

Curling her hands around the edges of her jacket, she pulls it tighter around herself. "I don't _need_ babysitting."

"Look, I'm saying everything all wrong."

To his credit, he couldn't sound more apologetic, but it's too late. It was too late before she'd even arrived at the restaurant, she thinks unhappily.

"Okay, here's the bottom line. I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life making you happy." For a horrible instant, she thinks he might be about to go down on one knee all over again. "I could give you a real home, Emma, the kind you've always wanted. What do you say?"

She looks at him, hating herself for what she's about to do, knowing she'll hate herself even more if she doesn't."I can't."

He frowns, running his hand through his dark hair. "You can't because it's too soon, or you can't because you need some time to think about things, or-"

Reaching out, she touches him for the first time tonight, curling her arms around his forearms. "I'm so sorry, Walsh." She _is_ sorry, more sorry than she can ever tell him, but he deserves better. He deserves someone who can love him unreservedly, with their whole heart. Not having a happy ending might be painful now, but giving someone unrealistic hope is far worse, and she won't do that to him. "For a long time, I really thought this was what I wanted, but it's not."

His dark eyebrows draw together in a heavy frown. "What's _not_, exactly?"

He's going to make her spell it out for him, she realises, and she takes a deep breath. "This. Us. You and me."

He steps back, and her hands fall empty to her sides. "Are you serious right now?"

"I am." Her voice catches on those two little words, harsh in her throat. "I'm so sorry, Walsh."

He looks as though she's just told him the world is coming to an end. "Tell me what's wrong." He steps to her side again, his eyes locking with hers. "If it's something I'm doing or saying that's making you want to end things, please tell me. I'll fix it, I promise."

"You can't fix it." Her eyes blur hotly, and she would give almost anything to not be the one hurting him right now, but she can't go back. "I know this is the worst cliché, but it's not you. This is about me and how I feel, and I don't_feel _enough to marry you. I'm _so _sorry, but that's not going to change."

"So that's it." He looks at her, his expression tight, his dark eyes glittering. "It's over?"

She nods, again offering the only words she can, even though she knows they'll be of little comfort to him. "I'm so sorry."

Looking dazed, he runs both hands through his hair. "So am I."

Turning on his heel, he walks back into the restaurant, leaving her alone in the cold evening air. Emma waits until he vanishes from her view, then she puts one booted foot in the direction of her car, then the other. She's done the right thing, she knows that, but right now she feels as though she's just ripped out Walsh's heart and ground it into dust beneath her heel.

Her eyes are stinging with tears she's determined not to shed and she feels like the shittiest person in the world, but the crippling weight of _dread_ she's been carrying around with her for days lightens with every new step she takes.

She drives home carefully, conscious of her scattered headspace and her lack of sleep, the street lights blurring more than once as she finds herself tearing up over losing yet another person from her life. It doesn't matter that she was the one who flipped the switch on the trapdoor, it still hurts. Every time she thinks of the shock etched on Walsh's face, her chest tightens, and she finds herself gripping the steering wheel a little harder.

Halfway home, she suddenly feels as though she can't breathe. She pulls over to the side of the road as soon as it's safe turning off the engine with an unsteady hand. The sudden silence wraps itself around her like a shroud, then she's crying, gulping back sobs, the tears hot on her cheeks.

She cries for Walsh and the loss of what they could have had, and for the hurt she's caused his heart tonight. She cries for herself, for the parents who didn't want her and never came looking for her, leaving her with scars so deep sometimes she's afraid she'll never be able to climb out of them. She cries for wasted moments and missed chances and stupid decisions, all the things she's shoved down into the darkest corners of herself, as if pretending they never happened would make it true.

When it's over, she feels drained but weirdly calm. Apparently she'd been long overdue for a violent crying fit. _Go figure_. Unearthing a battered packet of tissues from her purse, she dabs her eyes and blows her nose. She feels like she's been parked on the side of the road for an eternity but, to her surprise, only fifteen minutes has passed. Before she starts the car, she checks her phone, relieved to see she has no missed calls or text messages from Walsh. She's pretty sure he's more than a little angry with her right now, and she'd rather have a good night's sleep (in her own bed, a very important detail after almost a week living in a hotel room) under her belt before she hears from him again.

By the time she turns into her street, though, she feels as though she's taking the last steps of a long, stupidly hazardous journey. She finds a parking space not far from the apartment, but she'd happily drag her suitcase ten blocks if she had to. Maybe she's just a callous bitch at heart, but she feels as though she can breathe properly for the first time in what seems like months.

Killian's car is in the apartment parking space. She stops in her tracks, butterflies lurching through her belly at the sight of his ridiculous gas guzzler. Her head had been so full of what she'd needed to say to Walsh that she hadn't really thought about the rest of the evening, or even considered the full implications of David and Mary Margaret's departure to visit their mothers. Now, seeing his car, she realises that she'd been hoping he wasn't home, just to give her some breathing space after seeing Walsh.

It seems the universe has other ideas, though, and she can't remember the last time she felt so nervous.

The lift to the fourth floor seems to take forever, but finally she's putting her key into the front door. She smiles at the music coming from the living room as soon as she steps into the hallway - nineties Manchester? really? - then ditches her suitcase just inside the front door. She runs her hands through her hair (she's sure it looks fine, which is more than she can probably say for her eye make-up) and takes a deep breath as she walks down the hallway. "Anyone home?"

Rounding the corner into the living room, she finds Killian standing in the middle of the room, shrugging into his favourite leather jacket. His eyes widen at the sight of her, his lips parting long before he says her name in an oddly strangled voice. "Swan. I wasn't expecting you home tonight."

_Mary Margaret strikes again, _she thinks with a smile. "I know, but I'm so glad you're here." She dumps her purse onto the couch, not giving a damn that she's left it unzipped and half a dozen of her personal belongings have spilled out onto the cushions. "I _really_ need to talk to you-"

He gives her a despairing look that she doesn't understand, the tips of his ears turning pink, then he waves his hand in the direction of the woman who is walking out of his bedroom, a paperback novel in her hand. "Emma, you remember Jane."

The other woman is fully dressed, shoes included, but the fact she's just casually strolled out of Killian's bedroom makes Emma feels as though she's been punched in the stomach. To add insult to injury, Jane gives her a wave. "Hey, Emma. Nice to see you again."

Maybe Emma should be worried that her smile looks as fake as it feels, but right now, she doesn't give a shit. "You too."

Killian's gaze burns into hers for another few seconds, then he turns to Jane, his mouth curling in an easy smile. "I take it you found your book?"

"Yes, right on the top shelf, just where you said it would be." The dark-haired woman smiles back at him, and Emma has never felt more like a third wheel in her life.

"Excuse me, would you?" Her voice sounds as though it's coming from a distance. "It's been a long drive."

She flees to the kitchen. She doesn't know why. Maybe her subconscious pushes her in the direction of the room with sharp implements and boiling water. All she knows is that she's too late and she's only got herself to blame.

She's just pulling a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator when she hears his footsteps coming down the hallway towards the kitchen. Keeping her back to the doorway, she moves to grab a wine glass (just one, she has no intention of being sociable), vaguely disappointed that the bottle is a screw top and there's no need for her to gouge anything with the corkscrew.

"You alright, Swan?"

She closes her eyes at the concern in his voice. God, she hates this, hates that he has the power to make her feel so unnecessary and then so cherished in the space of two fucking minutes.

_I hate you sometimes._

And there's that stupid sound bite in her head again, she fumes in silent despair. She pours herself a glass of wine, then clunks the bottle onto the counter top before turning around to face him. She hasn't seen him for almost a week, and just looking at him makes her whole body ache with a hollow longing that has her gripping her glass tightly, almost white-knuckled. "So." She takes a sip of wine, watching him frown as he watches_her. _"You and Jane."

She says the words softly, but there's no disguising the accusation in them. She doesn't care.

He hesitates for a few seconds, then lifts his chin, hooking his thumbs into his leather belt as his shoulders straighten, his bright blue gaze snapping into hers. "Perhaps."

There's a world of challenge in that one little word, and she's suddenly furious, both with him and herself. "I thought you said that the two of you were a bad fit."

"What can I say?" He leans one hip against the kitchen counter, ankles casually crossed. "Sometimes you just need a little distance to gain a new perspective."

The wine tastes like vinegar on her tongue, but that doesn't stop her from taking another gulp. "I guess that just goes to show some people never change."

His gaze narrows, his casual stance vanishing as he straightens. "What's_ that_supposed to mean?"

She feels the corners of her mouth turn downwards, like that of a sulking child, but she's not in the mood to impress anyone tonight, least of all him. "Nothing."

He studies her carefully, then takes two steps towards her, which is two steps too many as far as she's concerned. "How was dinner with Walsh?"

"Interesting." She doesn't bother asking how he knows where she was tonight. Mary Margaret has long been the hub of information in their little group. "He asked me to marry him."

He stares at her, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard. He looks as though she's stuck a knife between his ribs, which makes no fucking sense, considering his _date_ is sitting in the other room. "And what was your answer?"

His harsh whisper is just as much of an accusation as hers had been earlier, and it brings out the worst in her. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

He smiles at the childish jibe, but the blue light in his eyes stays cool. "Perhaps I would."

_I hate you sometimes. _

Glaring at him, she gestures towards the living room with her wine glass in her right hand, keeping her left by her side, hidden from his view. "You should go. Your date will be wondering where you are."

He closes the gap between them in two quick strides, and she's suddenly very aware that the kitchen counter is pressing into the small of her back, leaving her nowhere to go. "Always got my best interests at heart, haven't you, Swan?"

Sarcasm drips from his every quietly spoken word, but she's more than up for the challenge of returning fire. "Excuse me?"

Another smile, and this time it makes her stomach flip over. "Perhaps you should ask yourself why you're almost as invested in _my_ personal life as you are your own."

Her face is hot, her pulse humming in her ears, but she's not going to run away. "Why am I not surprised you're making this all about you?"

He waggles an admonishing finger in her face, almost brushing the tip of her nose. "Oh, Swan. I didn't have to lift a finger to make it about me, not when you're so determined to do it for me."

_Oh, God. _Her heart is jumping like a fucking jackrabbit against her ribs. "What exactly are you implying?"

"I think there's a reason why you keep saying _no_ to Walsh's pleas for you to share his home, in spite of your constant claims of being happy with him."

She clamps her lips together in a tight line, deciding she is not going to tell him what happened between her and Walsh tonight. He doesn't deserve her honesty right now. "And what's that?"

His eyes lock with hers, and although there's still a clear foot of space between them, she can feel the almost tangible pull towards him. "You're afraid."

She glares at him, because it's easier to be angry than to admit he might be right. "Excuse me?"

Reaching out, he takes the wine glass from her hand and puts it on the counter top. He doesn't touch her, though, and she tells herself she's relieved. "You're afraid that if you let him go, you'll be alone again, just like you were when you were younger and the people you loved were stupid enough to leave you behind."

Her throat feels thick and tight. Even if she could find the right words, she's not sure she could actually speak.

When she says nothing, he goes on, dropping his voice even lower. "You'd rather stay with Walsh and be unhappy for the rest of your life instead of being brave enough to see if there's another happy ending out there for you."

His harshly whispered accusation shocks her into speech, and the words tumble from her mouth without thought. "Let me guess. With _you_?"

Her words hang in the air between them as they stare at each other. Finally, he shrugs, the tiny muscle in his jaw jumping as he bites out his answer. "Perhaps." He takes a step backwards, his eyes never leaving hers. "But I guess we'll never know, will we?"

_Oh, God. _This conversation has become a fucking train wreck, and she feels like she's frozen on the spot, powerless to stop it from unfolding. As if in a dream, she lifts her hand to touch his arm, but he's already moving away. "I need to take Jane home."

Panic claws at her. "Killian, wait."

His shoulders slump, then he half-turns, shaking his head as he glances at her. "To use one of your favourite turns of phrase, Swan, save your breath." He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking very tired. "I'm not in the mood."

She stares down at the toes of her boots, listening to his rapidly disappearing footsteps. Through a fog of anger and regret, she hears the faintest murmur of conversation, then the sound of the front door slamming.

She's alone.

Walking slowly to the nearest kitchen chair, Emma sits, puts her head in her hands and, the second time in as many hours, lets herself cry for what she's lost.

"So." Jane clears her throat lightly. "Emma."

Killian tightens his grip on the steering wheel. They've been driving for ten minutes, and while the conversation has been stilted, Jane's choice of subject change is not a welcome one, not when Emma's words are still ringing in his ears.

_Walsh asked me to marry him._

"What about her?"

"She's the woman you're not sure of, isn't she?"

_Bloody hell. _Startled, he almost misses the exit he needs to take to get to Jane's apartment, and he grits his teeth on a few choice words. "Sorry?"

"While I'm painfully aware I don't always remember to apply the skill to my personal life, I read people for a living, Killian. It was pretty obvious to me that some strong emotions were involved back there."

By his reckoning, they should reach her apartment in just under fifteen minutes. He suspects those fifteen minutes are going to take an eternity. "I know you mean well, love, but I'd rather not talk about it."

"You know, I think I've just remembered why we stopped seeing each other," she mutters in a short, sharp tone. "Look, I've put aside my own feelings regarding the situation and offered to be a sounding board for you. You can ignore the offer or you can vent your spleen at me for the next ten minutes. We'll never discuss it again, after all."

He stares at the road ahead for a long moment, warring with himself, torn between wanting to keep his grief hidden and the very real need to say her name. "Emma's boyfriend proposed to her this evening."

"I see." Unsurprisingly, Jane sounds as though she's taking his official statement. "And this affects you because-?"

"I'm not in the habit of waxing lyrical about a woman when I'm in another's company, love."

He hears her sigh. "Clock's ticking, Killian."

"Fine." If she wants him to speak his mind, then so be it. "It's always been her, since the first day we met at college." As it had when he'd spoken with David on Friday evening, the simply act of saying the words out loud sends a visceral jolt of pain rattling through him. "Unfortunately, she's never shared the same sentiment."

They've reached Jane's neighbourhood now, and he has the sense of time slipping through his fingers. "I take it you've never told her."

"There's never been a time when we've both been unattached _and_ in the same city." He glances at her, but her expression is unreadable. "And being able to call her my friend is something I have always highly valued."

As they turn into her street, Jane reaches down to where her purse is tucked next to her feet, placing it carefully on her lap. "Two things." He pulls up in front of her apartment block, keeping the engine running as he looks at her. "You're usually a very observant man, so I'm sure you don't need me to tell you Emma had obviously been crying before she'd arrived home."

He stares at her, frantically trying to recall the finer details of the dreadful conversation he'd had with Emma in the kitchen. He'd been so bloody intent on scoring points, first with Jane's presence and then pushing her about Walsh, that he hadn't attributed her reddened eyes to anything more dramatic than her occasional allergies. "What's the second thing?" he hears himself ask, and Jane gives him a frankly pitying look.

"If she'd said yes, don't you think she'd still be with him, celebrating such a momentous occasion instead of coming home to speak to _you_?"

Killian closes his eyes, his hands still gripping the steering wheel. "You make a very good case." He has been a fool of the first water, letting his bruised pride and his sodding ego rule his head, and he may have just irrevocably damaged his friendship with the one person he can't bear to lose. "It appears your professional reputation is more than justified."

"It certainly is." Leaning across, she presses a fleeting kiss to his cheek, then opens the passenger door before he can even think about being a gentleman and escorting her to her door. "And maybe one day I'll learn to take my own advice." Standing beside his car, she gives him one last smile. "See you in the trenches, Jones."

With that, she slams the passenger door shut, and Killian shakes his head at the irony of it all. That was the most honest conversation they've ever had, and it was about his feelings for another woman.

Speaking of that other woman –

He performs a swift U-turn, ignoring the blaring horn of the disgruntled driver behind him. It's been a long time since he couched his thoughts in the nautical language he and Liam had used _ad nauseam_ as small children growing up near the seaside, but right now he feels as though he has the wind in his sails, slicing through the choppy waters that lay between himself and his home port.

He can only hope the conditions are as favourable once he reaches dry land. If not, well, he's always been good at thinking on his feet.

Emma moves through the apartment on autopilot, slinging her suitcase onto her bed and taking her dirty clothes into the bathroom to dump them into the washing machine. On one of her shuffling trips past the living room, she sees the two used mugs on the coffee table, and automatically clears them away before it clicks who'd left them there.

He always did like to use his barista skills to impress people, she thinks darkly.

There's a dark pink lipstick smudge on one of them. To her credit, Emma stops herself from chucking the damned thing against the nearest wall. She doesn't take any particular care as she dumps them into the kitchen sink either, but she doesn't manage to break them.

_Pity_, she thinks, making a mental note never to drink out of those white mugs again.

Her cell phone rings fifteen minutes after Killian and Jane have left, and she's just getting ready to ignore it when she sees that it's Kathryn calling. Her heart sinking at the thought that her boss might have yet another urgent job, she picks up her phone and tries to sound as though she hasn't been on a freaking emotional rollercoaster all night.

"Hello?"

"Emma, it's Kathryn."

"So my caller ID tells me."

"I'm sorry to call you so late, but I need to talk to you about something."

"It's just after ten, it's not that late," Emma protests automatically, then frowns. "Everything alright? Freddy and the kids okay?"

"We're all fine." She can hear the sound of traffic in the background, and realises that Kathryn is calling from her car. "Are you home?"

"Yep."

"Do you have company?"

Emma laughs as she walks slowly from the kitchen towards her bedroom, and it's a bleak, humourless sound. "I am very much alone, trust me."

"Something urgent has come up." She hears Kathryn call some other driver a few interesting words, then she comes back to the call. "Do you mind if I drop over?"

Emma blinks. "You want to come _here_?"

"Yes, if you don't mind." Kathryn's tone is firm and invites no dissent, something Emma's only heard on a handful of other occasions. "It's not something that can wait until Monday, I'm afraid."

"Uh, sure." She rattles off her address, making sure Kathryn has the details before she hangs up, then looks around her. The apartment is tidy enough not to disgrace her in front of her boss, not that she believes the other woman would care.

Kathryn rings the buzzer at the front door only ten minutes later, and Emma knows then that she must have been already in the neighbourhood. Doing her best to quiet the sudden bout of nerves, she opens the door with a smile. "Come on in."

Her boss bustles past her, an overcoat-clad figure trailing just the right amount of Chanel as she moves, a laptop under her arm. "Sorry to do this to you on your weekend, but this can't wait."

"It's okay."

Emma leads the way into the kitchen, and Kathryn puts the laptop on the wooden table before swiftly shrugs out of her coat and scarf. "It started raining just as I got out of the car, of course."

"Rule of the universe," Emma replies lightly, but she's distracted, trying to gather clues from the other woman's expression, but her boss has one of the best poker faces in the business. "Do you want some coffee?"

"Thank you, no." Kathryn boots up her laptop, then gestures for Emma to take the chair beside her. "Although a stiff drink might be in order once we're done." Frowning, Emma watches as her boss brings up her email account, then opens the most recent message in her inbox. From what Emma can see, there's an encrypted file attached. "This was sent to me tonight from an old friend in the Boston PD." Kathryn swiftly types in a password. "I thought it would be best if you saw it for yourself."

Emma looks. She blinks, resisting the urge to rub her eyes, then looks again. "Why you do have a surveillance picture of me with Walsh at dinner tonight?"

"Because my contact at the Boston PD emailed it to me just over an hour ago. Apparently she remembered you from her visit to our office a few months ago." She clicks through to the next photograph, and Emma's confusion grows.

"Felix Piper?" She stares at the familiar, sharply-angled face of one of her more recent skips. "What's he got to do with me? Or with Walsh?"

Kathryn lets out a sigh, then turns to look at her. "It appears our friend Felix has been running with a very interesting crowd over the last year or so." There's nothing in her tone to indicate impending disaster, but Emma's pulse is already skipping erratically, because this is no social visit. "After you picked him up last week, he had his court date rescheduled and was released on bail."

"What's so special about that?"

"His bail was very promptly paid by _this_ woman." She clicks through to the next photograph. "And, as you can see, she has a connection to someone you know very well."

Emma stares at the laptop screen, nausea rising in her throat. She shuts her eyes, hoping that when she opens them again, the photograph will show her something other than Felix Piper and Zelena Mills deep in conversation with Walsh.

It doesn't.

"This can't be right." Even as she says the words, she knows that it is. She recognises the background in the photograph, even though it was obviously taken at night. They're outside the side entrance of Walsh's store.

Kathryn's voice is gentle as she confirms what Emma already knows. "I'm afraid it is."

Emma finds herself reaching a hand towards the laptop screen, and quickly snatches it back. She doesn't know what to do with herself, her whole body feeling restless and off-kilter. "When was this photo taken?"

"Two months ago."

That's another lie, but hey, what's one more lie amidst a whole fucking sea of lies? "Walsh told me that last Sunday was the first time he'd met her."

Kathryn pats her awkwardly on the shoulder, the weight of the other woman's hand feeling like a bag of cement. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Emma, but it seems your boyfriend has lied about a lot more than the duration of his relationship with Zelena Mills."

"He's not my boyfriend," she mutters automatically, as if that makes any difference to the nightmare that's playing out on Kathryn's computer screen.

Her boss looks at her, obviously taken aback by this piece of news. "Since when?"

Fighting the absurd urge to laugh, Emma checks her watch. "Since about eight o'clock this evening, right after he asked me to marry him."

"He did what?"

"I don't want to talk about it." Emma waves her hand, as if that might brush this particular line of questioning away, and points to the laptop. "What the hell is this all about? Why do the police have Walsh under surveillance?"

"They didn't, at least not initially." Kathryn taps one perfectly manicured finger on Zelena's face. "They'd been watching _her_."

Emma sits back in her chair, suddenly feeling cold despite the warmth of the kitchen. "I don't understand any of this." The feeling of not being able to breathe is back, and she presses her hands flat on her chest, just above her breasts, pressing hard until she can feel the outline of her ribcage beneath her palms. _Breathe. Just breathe. _"What's Walsh's part in this?"

Kathryn shuts the laptop with a decisive flick of her wrist, but nothing will ever dislodge the mental image of those photographs from Emma's mind. "I'll explain as much as I know. Do you need a moment?"

Emma clenches her jaw, willing herself not to give in to the tears she can feel burning her eyes. She's cried over Walsh once already tonight. She refuses to let him take anything else from her. "Tell me."

For the next fifteen minutes, Kathryn talks without interruption. It's quite the tale, as Killian would say, and if it were about someone else, Emma might be entertained. It's about the man she thought she knew better than anyone, though, and it makes her feel sick to her stomach. She stares at her hands, splayed flat on the kitchen table, as Kathryn recites facts and figures about a spate of robberies from high-end business and apartments, first in Chicago three years ago, and now here in Boston. How Zelena was suspected of recruiting petty thieves in both cities, grooming them as her personal, criminal entourage, using her contacts in the design world to source potential targets.

Finally, how they knew she had a 'silent' partner who helped coordinate the hits and her underlings, but they could never get a fix on anyone in either her social or professional circle.

Until now, that is.

Emma closes her eyes. Walsh had moved to Boston from Chicago three years ago. His store had only been open just over a year before she'd met him by arresting one of his employees. _Oh, God, what if he'd already known that his employee had a criminal record? What if that was actually the reason he'd hired the girl in the first place?_ Her head is already spinning, but she has to ask. "Are they together?"

Kathryn, usually so no-nonsense, looks at her with such compassion that Emma wishes the ground would swallow her whole. "There's no indication that their relationship is anything other than a business arrangement, but I think it's fairly safe to assume that he's not the man you thought he was."

Emma's mouth is painfully dry, but she doesn't seem to have the energy to walk to the refrigerator. "Apparently not." She doesn't tell Kathryn that it would have been less painful if he'd just been sleeping with Zelena.

Kathryn hesitates, then seems to come to some decision. "I do have another tidbit of information, but I'm afraid it's even more grim."

Once again, Emma feels the ridiculous urge to laugh. "I don't know if that's possible."

"It seems the authorities believe Walsh has some good friends in the CBP."

(It takes Emma a few seconds to remember the entity behind the initials. When she does - customs, border protection – her heart seems to sink right down to her boots.)

"The type of good friends who will look the other way when certain shipments come in." Kathryn goes on gently, but the words still break over Emma like shattered glass. "For a price, of course."

"So, basically, we're talking importing prohibited substances on the side while helping mastermind a B&E ring."Emma's eyes blur hotly as the last two years of her life come crumbling down around her. "Is that right?"

"Officially, it's all _alleged_ at this point, but it's not looking good. I'm so sorry, Emma."

Swallowing hard (God, her throat is burning) she shakes her head. "Why are_you_ sorry? You're not the one who's been lying to me from the moment we met."

Concern sweeps across the other woman's face. "I didn't want to dump all this on you, but you needed to know."

"He asked me to marry him." Emma looks at her boss. "Who the hell _does_that when they're leading a fucking double life?"

"Someone who likes having tight control over every aspect of their life?" Kathryn touches the back of Emma's left hand lightly, as if wanting to double check there's no engagement ring in sight. "Or maybe a man in the habit of using people to further his own interests?"

Kathryn's words bring to mind a terrible possibility. Emma tries to push it away, but she can't. "He was always so interested in my work." _Oh, God,_she's been such a fool_. _"Always wanted to know how my day had been and what new 'bad guy' stories I had for him."

"Emma, none of this is your fault."

Emma feels as though she's swallowed a glass of crushed ice. "I never gave him any names, but what's to say he didn't help himself to my laptop or my phone every time I slept at his place?"

Kathryn shakes her head. "Don't do this to yourself. None of this is your doing."

She's not sure which urge is more pressing, the need to throw up or get in her car and drive to Walsh's place and punch him in the face. Maybe she'll do both. "Maybe we should have that drink now." She's amazed that she sounds so normal. "You know, to celebrate me achieving a new low in bad breakups."

Kathryn gives her a worried glance (maybe she doesn't sound as normal as she thinks she does) then peers up the hallway that leads away from the kitchen. "Where are your friends this weekend?"

Emma blinks, feeling like a concussion victim being asked what day of the week it is. "Uh, Mary Margaret and David are out of town, and Killian is-" She breaks off, her voice cracking over his name, because everything is beyond wrong, and she _needs_ him. "He's out for the night," she finally manages to say, and her boss frowns.

"You're more than welcome to come and spend the weekend at my place, if you'd like?"

Even through the murky black cloud engulfing Emma's thoughts, she remembers that Kathryn has two children under five, and she's so not in the right frame of mind for that kind of company. "Thanks, but I'll be fine."

Pulling the laptop towards her, Kathryn glances at her quickly. "No plans to speak to Walsh this weekend, I take it?"

Emma rubs her fingertips against her temples, wishing she could magic away the dull throbbing in her head. "Definitely not."

A few minutes later, Kathryn is once again bundled up in her overcoat, her laptop securely tucked under her arm. "I'll be in touch if anything else pops up." She pauses, then gives Emma an awkward, one-armed hug. "At this point, Walsh has no idea you know any of this, of course. If he _does_ contact you-"

Emma shakes her head. Nothing would induce her to speak to Walsh tonight. "If he does, I won't be taking his calls or letting him in the door, so it's a moot point."

"There's my employee of the year," Kathryn says lightly, giving Emma's shoulder a quick squeeze. "Call me if you need anything."

When Kathryn is gone, Emma locks the front door, even the deadbolt, her movements unhurried and steady, fuelled by cold, calm rage. She's not afraid of Walsh, but neither is she a naïve fool. She might have the benefit of Kathryn's father's legacy of connections in the local police department, but things that are meant to be kept secret rarely stay that way. If she and Kathryn know about Walsh and his little crew, then maybe they're not the only ones.

She stands in the hallway, at a loss as to what to do next. She wants to call Mary Margaret. She wants a hot shower to scrub away the long drive and the memory of Walsh's touch.

She wants-

Wrapping her arms around herself, she lets out a shaky breath, because there's one thing she wants more than anything.

She wants Killian to come home.

Standing in the living room, she looks at his closed bedroom door. She thinks of how he'd looked at her when she'd told him that Walsh had proposed, how he'd pushed her and _pushed _her about her fears.

The regret swimming in his eyes when he'd told her that now they'd never know if they were meant to be something more.

_Fuck._

Her gaze falls upon the antique end table Walsh had presented to her on their second date. At the time, she'd been so impressed (she hadn't mentioned the damned thing to him, just cast longing looks at it whenever she was in his store) but now she wonders what sordid history is behind it. Anger begins to thrum through her, sparking through her blood and pushing her forward. Carefully, she moves the photo frames and books sitting on top of it, then carries it into the middle of the living room, away from the big screen TV.

Five minutes later, she's panting, sweat prickling her scalp and trailing down her spine beneath her dress. Her arms are aching and she'll probably have a bruise on her shin tomorrow, but it was worth it. She carefully kicks the pieces of wood that were once her end table into a small pile on the rug, and feels her mouth twist in a fleeting smile.

_Much better._

Afterwards, she takes a long shower, standing unmoving under the hot water for a long time, feeling a dull sort of gratitude that she's alone for the evening and doesn't have to worry about using more than her fair share. She scrubs her face, wanting every trace of the makeup she'd worn to dinner gone. A moment later, the smell of her usual body wash (the pink one Killian refuses to use, accusing it of being 'far too womanly for his dashing self') fills steamy air around her, chasing away the last memory of Walsh's aftershave.

She doesn't look at herself in the mirror as she dries off and pulls on her favourite pair of pyjamas. She doesn't have to see her reflection to know that she looks as miserable as she feels, and right now she has no words of comfort for the unhappy woman in the fogged up mirror.

She's briefly tempted to reacquaint herself with that open bottle of Chardonnay in the refrigerator, but she knows there's not enough wine in the apartment (or the city) to make the hurt and regret she's feeling go away.

_Wouldn't you like to know?_

She might not be a naïve fool when it comes to Walsh, at least not anymore, but when it comes to Killian Jones, it seems she's a fucking idiot.

She should try to sleep, but she has the feeling that's not going to happen. Instead, she makes her way to the living room and turns on the television. She finds a music channel playing one-hit wonders (she winces, because does _every _damned thinghave to remind her of Killian?) and sinks down onto the couch, trying not to think of how many nights she's sat here with him while he made her laugh until she couldn't breathe.

Curling up in the corner of the couch, her knees almost tucked up to her chest, she closes her eyes, telling herself she'll get up and go to bed very soon.

Maybe, she thinks as the old song about groove being in the heart fades in and out, washing over her like a strange lullaby, she'll wake up tomorrow morning and all of this will have been nothing more than a really bad dream.


	10. Chapter 10

The apartment is quiet when he lets himself in. With some difficulty, he might add, seeing as Emma appears to have engaged all the locks, even the ones they seldom use, and he doesn't usually perform this task while carrying a box of assorted donuts and a tub of peanut butter ice-cream.

(He'd been tempted to buy Chunky Monkey, but decided that perhaps that would be taking things a little too far.)

Uncertain as to whether his housemate is sleeping or even still in the apartment, he treads warily down the hallway. As he gets closer to the living room, he can hear that the television is on (it's that sodding song about boot-scooting, he'd thought the world would have been spared that one by now), and he knows Emma is not only still home, she must be still awake.

_Or perhaps not,_ he thinks as he surveys the scene before him a few seconds later.

The first thing he sees is Emma, curled up on her favourite couch, sound asleep. The second is the neat pile of shattered wood on the floor in the middle of the living room.

Two intriguing sights, but he only has eyes for one of them.

He quickly visits the kitchen to stash food he'd stopped to buy on the way home (the struggle to find something that wasn't pumpkin pie flavoured had been quite real), then heads back to the living room.

She's still asleep.

Putting his phone and car keys on the coffee table, he shrugs out of his jacket and perches on the edge of the couch, allowing himself the luxury of brushing a few errant strands of hair back from Emma's face. Her lovely features are soft and vulnerable in sleep, and his chest tightens with longing. God, what a fool he's been, hiding behind his misguided sense of chivalry. Telling himself that he was protecting her by keeping his distance.

Her eyes suddenly fly open, wide and clear, and she stares up at him in fright. "What?"

All he can think is thank God he hadn't given into the temptation of brushing his knuckles against the softness of her cheek. "It's just me."

"Shit." She struggles to sit up, and he leans back to give her some space. "You scared me."

"I'm sorry, love."

She looks up at him. There's a faint crease on her cheek from the cushion she'd used a pillow. Her eyes are faintly red, her face scrubbed bare of all makeup, her hair a messy cloud of gold that contrasts starkly with her sapphire blue pyjamas.

She takes his breath away.

He glances at the neat pile of wood on the rug, then at the empty space where once had stood a small, overpriced table. Turning back to Emma (Jane had been right, she's definitely been crying) he begins to suspect there may be more to this tale than meets the eye. "Is everything alright?"

"That's kind of a long story." She straightens her pyjama top, and he'd be lying if he didn't greatly appreciate the way the silken fabric flatters her braless breasts. "What are you doing here?"

Her voice is small, almost nervous. Putting his elbows on his knees, he links his hands together to stop himself from reaching out to her. "I know you've been spending some time amongst the bright city lights of New York lately, Swan, but I do still live here."

"It's just that, uh, I thought you'd be spending the night at Jane's."

Jealousy resonates from the mumbled words, and it makes his heart sing. (God help him, he's only human.) He shifts slightly, letting her swing her legs over the side of the couch so she can sit up properly. Whether by accident or design, she ends up sitting quite close to him, and he does his best to ignore the long length of silk-clad thigh next to his own. "Well, that would be quite awkward, considering she and I decided this evening that it wouldn't work out between us."

"Oh." She looks down at her hands, and his gaze follows hers. There's no ring on her left hand, and his heart soars a little higher. As if feeling the weight of his regard, she looks up at him, her green gaze meeting his with an impact that sets his pulse to racing. "I said no, in case you were wondering."

He grins, wondering if there's any chilled champagne in the refrigerator, because if ever there was an occasion that needed celebrating, this is it. "I was."

Her gaze drops to his mouth, her eyelashes fluttering dark and full even without the benefit of mascara, then lifts to his eyes once more. "If you must know, I broke up with him five minutes after he asked me to marry him."

"May I ask why?"

The ghost of their earlier heated conversation drifts between them, and for a few tense seconds, he doesn't think she's going to answer him. Finally, she lifts her head, meeting his gaze steadily. "I wasn't in love with him."

His heart is already pounding a staccato beat against his ribs, but they don't pay him the big bucks at work for not being able to keep a straight face. "Which is a _very_ sound reason not to get married, I've always thought."

Her mouth trembles in a quick smile. "Well, _you'd_ know, Mr Divorce Lawyer."

Her teasing mirrors his own thoughts so exactly that it's almost disconcerting, and he finds himself succumbing to the one nervous tell he still possesses, rubbing the back of his neck, as if that might help the right words magically appear on his tongue. "You said it was a long story?"

She pulls a face that he thinks is meant to be comical, but he can see the anxiety in her eyes. "Walsh isn't who I thought he was."

Reaching across, he takes her left hand, threading his fingers through hers until her palm is pressed warmly against his. "So he's _not_ a complete wanker selling overpriced flotsam and jetsam to bearded fools with too much money?"

She laughs, but it sounds more like a hiccup, and he's dismayed to see that her eyes are suddenly brimming with tears. "No, he _is _that." She dashes at her eyes with the right sleeve of her pyjama top, her left hand tightening around his. "Kathryn came to see me tonight."

"Your boss? What's she got to do with Monkey Boy?" She gives him an admonishing look, but he doesn't care. For the first time in years, he's in exactly the right place at the right time where Emma Swan is concerned, and he's not going to mess it up.

She blows out a loud breath. "I don't know if-" She breaks off, obviously hesitant, and he squeezes her hand gently.

"Emma." He rubs his thumb over the back of her hand, and feels an answering trembling in her grasp. "You can tell me anything."

Her pale cheeks flush charmingly at his words. "Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you." She takes another deep breath, then launches into the most extraordinary of tales.

(She doesn't let go of his hand the whole time, which is probably for the best, given the urge to pick up his car keys and drive to the simian-faced bastard's house that comes over him several times during her recitation.)

When she's finished, she gives him a shaky smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Kathryn said she'd call me if she learned anything else."

He stares at her, his head reeling with everything he's just heard. She's watching him anxiously, as if she's worried about his reaction, and he flashes her a quick smile. "Hypothetically, if a man were to punch a lying sack of crap in the mouth until his giant white teeth rattled, would that still be considered assault?"

That earns him another laugh that sounds like a hiccup. "I'm afraid so."

Perhaps it's the lateness of the hour, but he can't resist the urge to indulge in a spot of polite gloating. "I knew that ridiculous shop of his could never bring in the kind of cash he liked to flash around."

Her eyes widen, but he sees the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Really? I've just found out my ex-boyfriend is under suspicion of allegedly masterminding a breaking and entering racket _and _drug trafficking, and all you can say is I told you so?"

"What I'm saying is that you deserve far better, Swan." He feels as though someone is pressing down on his chest, making his breath come fast and shallow. "You always did."

Her eyes are still brimming with tears, but this time he gets a real smile. "Thank you."

He gives the hand he's still holding (how did that happen?) a gentle squeeze. "Happy Thanksgiving, Swan."

Her smile wobbles slightly, as if the timing of this latest calamity has just dawned on her. "Right back at you, Jones."

Perhaps it's because he's still trying to process the revelations about Walsh (that mealy-mouthed _prick_), but it's only when Emma puts her hand on his knee that he realises that she's moved close enough for him to kiss her.

He doesn't get the chance, however, because she kisses _him_.

It's little more than a soft, chaste touching of her mouth to his, but it's almost his undoing. He can taste the salt of her tears, and the scent of her skin, her body, rises around him like a bloody siren's song. The memory of their last kiss floods his mind, and he remembers how she'd felt against him, soft and warm and wanting him. It would be so easy to take what she's offering, so easy to lose himself in the heat of the moment.

No.

He wants her. He wants _this. _ What he _doesn't _want is their first time to be a comfort shag, something to help her to forget while she cries over another bloody man's betrayal. Not quite able to believe what he's about to do (apparently he's thinking with his head rather than his cock, which is a miracle in itself) he pulls away.

That almost wrecks him, too.

He wants so much more, for both of them, and her evening has obviously quite stressful already. Now that they're both here and finally talking, perhaps it would be wiser to take a few deep breaths and let what whatever's going to happen unfold in its own time. He's already spent two weeks carrying the delicate burden of their last kiss alone. The last thing he wants is for her to regret something she actually _will_ remember.

He lifts his hands to cup her face, brushing his thumbs over her damp cheeks. "You know what you need?"

The smirk that curls her lips tests his willpower greatly. "I'm almost afraid to ask."

"A hot chocolate." He tilts his head towards the kitchen. "To go with the donuts I purchased on the way home."

She stares at him. "You don't like donuts."

It's an absurdly ordinary thing to say, considering the circumstances, but she's quite right, he doesn't like them, although he's rather fond of that peanut butter ice-cream. "I didn't buy them for me."

He sees her pale throat work as she swallows. There's a wealth of unspoken words between them, but her next question is quite direct. "Is there a bear claw?"

He grins. He'd had to visit three different convenience stores on the way home to find one that stocked her beloved bear claws, but it had been worth it. He's normally a more traditional man when it comes to presenting gifts to women, but he knows better than to give Emma Swan flowers as an apology. "What do you think?"

She leans forward, the tip of her nose almost touching his. "I think you're the best housemate ever."

_Bloody hell. _Closing his eyes, he presses his lips to her forehead before he can do anything foolish, like cover her mouth with his and push her back onto the couch and kiss her until she's writhing beneath him. Her forehead is smooth and warmth beneath his mouth, and possibility sparks through his blood like lightening. "Would I be correct in assuming you want cinnamon on your hot chocolate?"

Her green eyes light up. "You _would _be correct."

He gets to his feet, dearly hoping that his fly-buttoned jeans are protecting his modesty adequately. "One hot chocolate, coming right up." He smiles down at her as she tucks herself gracefully into the corner of the couch. "Don't go anywhere."

"Trust me, I'm too exhausted to move any further than this couch tonight."

Well, he muses as he walks quickly towards the kitchen, he certainly hopes that's the case. One of these days, he's going to stop chasing this woman.

Once he's safely alone in the kitchen, he adjusts the straining ridge of his erection through his jeans and laughs silently at his own outlandish vow. One day, perhaps, but it definitely isn't going to be this evening.

* * *

><p>Emma's heart pounding in time with his receding footsteps, she stares at the hallway where Killian has just vanished, apparently to make her a hot chocolate and bring her back a bear claw.<p>

She puts her hands over her face. Seriously, what the hell just happened?

She'd kissed him, she definitely remembers doing that. His mouth had been soft and warm and strangely familiar, even though she _knows _she's never kissed him before, not like that. He hadn't objected, but then again, he hadn't done anything to keep the kiss going. Instead, he'd pulled back, taken her face in his hands and wiped away her tears. Then he'd offered to make her hot chocolate, kissed her forehead so tenderly she'd felt the tears threatening to return, and vanished into the kitchen.

She's never been more confused in her life, and she's had a pretty fucking confusing day.

She stretches out on the couch, rolling her eyes at the television screen as she catches sight of the desperate flailing described as dancing by a lead singer whose name she's completely forgotten. Her gaze then falls on the smashed remains of her end table, and she can't help smiling at the realisation that Killian hadn't even asked her about it. He'd obviously put two and two together and come up with the answer on his own, and she might just love him a little more for it.

She loves him.

Oh, God.

The buzzing of an incoming text message has her automatically check the non-existent pocket of her pyjamas before she realises that it's coming from Killian's phone, which is sitting on the coffee table. From where she's sitting, she can see it's from his brother Liam, and because her housemate is still completely hopeless when it comes to cell phone security, the text message preview is also there for all the world to see.

Well, maybe not all the world, but definitely her.

_As you enjoyed the last photo so much, here's another criminally adorable puppy snap of Molly for you to admire. The less than adorable shredded hall table legs not shown._

The word _puppy _has her reaching for the phone in a heartbeat. "You didn't tell me Liam and Annie got a puppy," she mutters at a missing Killian, then she taps the photo attachment with her thumb, her heart doing an odd little jig when she sees the wide mouth puppy smile that fills the screen. _Wow, _she thinks as a wave of canine-related longing washes over her, _she really is criminally adorable._

Later, she will try to remember what she was thinking when she thumbed backwards through the camera roll. In her own defence, Liam _did _mention an earlier photo, and she really _did _want to see more photos of Molly.

Suddenly, she's staring at a photograph that makes no sense, because in it she's kissing Killian in a bathroom.

_Their _bathroom.

And not just kissing him, either. She's pushing him back against the sink, her body plastered against his, their mouths practically fused together. His face is flushed, his eyes tightly closed, with one hand in her hair and the other on her back.

She stares at it, her heart racing, feeling as though her whole body is buzzing with embarrassment. _She _took this photo, she can tell by the angle of the shot, and _that_ is the red sweater that she was wearing the Thursday night they'd gotten trashed on vodka shots.

Oh, God.

She closes her eyes, desperately trying to _remember_, pulling together the holes in her memory of that night, because she knows now that _this_ is the conversation she keeps hearing in her head. This is the something that she keeps thinking that she's missed. This is the punchline to the joke she couldn't remember hearing.

Oh, _God._

She stares at the screen, memory flitting in and out of her head like a badly tuned radio, clear then fuzzy in turn until finally, the fog clears and it's there, flooding into her head in a harsh, vivid rush.

_She's angry. _

_Angry at Walsh for ditching their plans once again, and angry at herself for falling off the fucking unrequited lust wagon and start thinking about what it would be like to kiss her dangerously attractive male housemate, because she's supposed to be over all that bullshit. The vodka is smooth as it burns a path down her throat, warming the pit of her stomach, making her hyperaware of the way Killian's watching her, his gaze licking hotly over her lips and her breasts as surely as if he's put his mouth on her. When their 'guess the crappy song lyrics' game comes to end (she totally nails it), he smirks at her, that right fucking eyebrow arching like a question mark. "What shall we play now, Swan?"_

_"__I have an idea." She slowly crawls from her end of the couch to where he's sitting, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He watches her, bright blue eyes as dark as sapphires, and she feels a heat wash over her that has nothing to do with the vodka. "What about a quick round of truth or dare?"_

_He stares at her, looking as though she's just asked him to strip off and do an interpretive dance. "Uh, perhaps next time, love." Getting unsteadily to his feet, he gives her a bright smile. "I might just get a drink of water." He pats the top of her head (pats her, for fuck's sake, like he's her big brother), and quickly slips past her. "Back in a tick."_

_Disgruntled and feeling more than a little snubbed, she slumps on the couch, scowling at the coffee table. When she spies his phone, a devilish impulse comes over her. He never locks the_ _damned thing, despite her nagging him about security and privacy, and it's all too easy to open up his camera app. Scrambling off the couch, she goes in search of her subject._

_"__Killian. Come here. I need a photo of you for my rogue's gallery of friends and well-wishers."_

_She might be hammered, she decides, but she's still hilarious._

_He calls out from the bathroom. "Be right with you, Swan." _

_"__Oops, not in the kitchen." She pivots unsteadily, heading towards the sound of his voice. The bathroom door is open, so it's not as though he'd be doing anything private, she decides. "Come on, Jones. I hardly have any photos of you and me."_

_He's drying his face when she launches herself into the bathroom. When he tosses the hand towel aside and turns to look at her, his eyes are glittering with an emotion that she's suddenly too frightened to name. He looks at her steadily, not like prey that's been cornered but prey that has no intention of trying to escape. She's moving towards him before she's conscious of taking a single step, and when she puts his phone onto the top of the vanity next to his hip, she hears him exhale a long, soft sigh. _

_Maybe she's not the only one who's seen this coming._

_When she curls her hands in the front of his sweatshirt, he doesn't move an inch. He just looks at her from beneath those eyelashes she'd give her right arm to have, his lips softly parted, pink and smooth against his dark beard, and she knows there's no going back now._

_She kisses him, and the whole world stops. _

_When he kisses her back, the world starts again, humming along to a different beat, and everything changes._

Now, two weeks later, Emma sits in their living room, her face burning and her stomach churning, and wonders how he could have kept this from her. All this time, he has let her go merrily about her business as if nothing had happened. He'd seen her every single fucking day, all the time knowing she didn't remember what they'd done, what _she_ had done, and he hadn't said a word.

She'd _asked_ him if she'd done anything embarrassing that night, and he'd said no. She'd believed him. Worse than that, she'd _trusted _him.

She drops the phone as though it's burned her. It falls silently onto the couch beside her just as Killian reappears, carrying two mugs of hot chocolate. She snatches up the phone again with a shaking hand, holding it up so he can see the screen.

"What the hell is this?"

* * *

><p>Killian spares only a quick glance at his phone (after all, he already knows which photograph is on the screen) before he puts the mugs down with exaggerated care on the coffee table. On one hand, this development is a great relief. On the other, it's also something he really didn't want to have to tackle this evening. He sits down at the other end of the couch, careful to give her (and her anger) enough space. "I realise it was probably a rhetorical question, but that's a photograph of you and I kissing."<p>

Her gaze narrows dangerously, as if she's trying to decide whether or not to knock his block off. Deciding he'd rather his phone not get trashed along with his face, he reaches out and takes it from her hand, placing it carefully on the coffee table. "Rather good shot composition, I must say."

"I know _what _it is," she shoots back at him, her voice tight. "What I want to know is why you told me I didn't do anything embarrassing that night when I obviously _did_!"

He looks at the phone (that bloody photograph is still taunting him from the screen), then back up at her. "Perhaps because I didn't think you _had _done anything embarrassing."

The look she gives him could almost flay the skin from his bones. "How long were you going to keep this a secret from me?"

He can't remember witnessing this thorough a cross-examination in a long time. If it wasn't directed at him, he'd be quite impressed. (He's still a little impressed, he has to admit.) "I wanted you to remember in your own time." He waves a hand towards his phone, hoping he doesn't sound as bloody wistful as he feels. "I didn't want to put you in the position of having to let me down gently."

That seems to take her aback, and it's a few seconds before she regathers herself. "Who else has seen that photo?"

"Not a soul."

Technically, it's true. Liam might know about the kiss, but Killian has shared the photograph with no one.

She glares at him, and in her eyes he sees the litany of other people's sins, the liars who have come and gone before him. "I don't believe you."

Her words have the effect of touching a nerve in a toothache, because he suddenly finds himself on his feet. "Since when have I been in the habit of lying to you?"

She rises to her feet as well, her hands flying furious through the air with each new word. "You lied to me about that night."

He can't help the exasperated look he gives her. "I beg to differ, love."

She shakes her head, her face pinched and pale. "A lie of omission is still a lie."

He takes a step towards her then, keeping his gaze locked with hers. "And reading someone else's text messages on someone else's phone without their express permission is bad form, if not actual trespass."

Obviously flustered by the (quite valid) accusation, she huffs out an angry breath. "Liam sent a puppy photo!"

Perhaps later, he'll remember this exchange and smile. Right now, though, he's so frustrated it's all he can do not to shout his answer back at her. "So fluffy content negates the morality of snooping?"

She fumes silently at that for a few seconds, her arms crossed over her chest. Finally, she looks at him. "_I_ kissed _you,_ didn't I_?_"

There's no point sugar coating anything, not now. "Yes, and quite thoroughly, too."

Her face is decidedly rosy, the corners of her mouth turned down. "Why the _hell_ didn't you say anything?"

"Because I was _trying_ to do the honourable thing."

"Honourable?" He takes a step towards her, and she lifts her chin, as if daring him to come closer. He doesn't. "I cheated on Walsh and _you_ didn't think I deserved to know that?"

He feels like they're teetering on a precipice. One false move and what's between them will be over, smashed to pieces like her bloody table, never to be repaired. "It was just a kiss."

"It was more than that. It's always been more than that." She glares at him, suddenly looking as though she's about to cry. "And we both know it."

Stunned that she's finally said the words the two of them have been dancing around for years, he can only stare at her as she stalks to the coat rack, pulling her overcoat on over her pyjamas. Finally, amidst the panicked certainty that she's bloody well running away from him, he finds his voice. "Emma, please don't do this."

Without saying a word, she snatches up her house keys from the sideboard and heads for the front door. "You're wearing your slippers, love." Even in the heat of battle, he can't resist pointing out the obvious. "Where the devil are you going to go?"

"Anywhere but here." Then she's gone, slamming the front door behind her.

"Bloody hell." He has his own house keys in his hand in a heartbeat, not bothering to waste time by grabbing his jacket even though he knows it's going to be freezing outside. _Perhaps in more ways than one,_ he thinks bleakly, but he has to try.

The elevator doors are just closing by the time he's locked the front door and stormed down the hallway. _Curse her and her superior fitness level_, he thinks darkly. He heads for the stairs, all four bloody flights of them, fuelled by adrenalin and fury and the very real fear that if he doesn't fix this mess in the next five minutes, he'll lose her forever.

It seems that today _definitely _isn't the day he's going to stop chasing her.

It's no longer raining, but the streets are still wet, glittering in the pale November moonlight. His breath is coming too fast (he really needs to start running again) but he's closed the distance between them, and she's just reached the end of the paved driveway when he catches up with her. "Swan, this is madness. Come back inside, we'll have a drink."

"Not in the mood for a drink." She glares at him over her shoulder as she quickens her pace. "Or you."

She'll be the bloody death of him, he thinks. Right now, however, he doesn't care. He lengthens his stride until he's close enough to reach out his hand and curl it around her arm, halting her flight. "Emma, please."

She stops in her tracks, spinning to face him, her eyes glittering with tears.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you that you'd kissed me." There's no way he can make things worse at this point, so he may as well be brutally honest. "It's like I said, love, I just didn't want you to feel as though you had to let me down gently. If you'd like, we can forget it ever happened."

(He'll never be able to forget it, but this is one time when he's prepared to lie to her.)

She closes her eyes, but she doesn't shake off his touch. "You think I'm angry because I kissed you?"

He stares at her, bewildered. "Isn't that what this is about?"

She opens her eyes, and he almost takes a step back at the anger in them. "Do you have any idea what it was like for me to hear all that crap about Walsh tonight?"

His heart is aching for her, but he knows now is not the time to try to comfort her. "No, I can't imagine."

"I loved him." She says the word _loved_ as if it's a toxic thing, and in this case, he has to agree. "But as usual, he wasn't who he said he was, and I got my heart broken."

Each word is like a needle digging into his skin, yet he's pleased to hear her say them. "Don't take this the wrong way, love, but I'm glad to hear it."

She stares at him. "You're _glad_ I've had my heart broken?"

He closes the distance between them, running his hands down her arms to take her hands in his, threading his fingers through hers. "If it can be broken," he says gently, hoping to soften the impact of his words, "that means it still works."

She blinks, her eyes still glittering. "Everyone I've ever been with has let me down."

_And there,_ he thinks sadly, _is the crux of the matter_. "I'm not them."

"I know." She looks down, sniffing softly, then lifts her gaze to his. "I'm not very good at this kind of thing."

"I beg to differ, Swan." He flashes her a quick smile. "I know how you kiss, remember?"

"You know what I mean." She shoots him a faintly pleading look. "I don't know if we should do this." Her lovely face crumples a little, her hands tightening around his. "I want to, so much, but you're my best friend," she tells him in a shaky whisper, and something tightens in his chest. "What if we fuck it up?" She's crying now, tears shining on her face, and it's all he can do to let her finish. "I've already lost so many people. I can't lose you, too."

Killian stares at her, feeling more than a little shell-shocked, because something extraordinarily important has just dawned on him.

She loves him.

She bloody well loves him and he wants to pick her up and spin her around like they're in some sodding clichéd movie scene, but instead he lifts one hand to tug at the lapels of her overcoat. "Do you remember the first day we met, Swan?"

Confusion flickers across her face at the change of subject, but she nods, blinking back tears. "Yes."

"So I do." He curls a strand of her hair around his finger, enjoying the silk against his skin. "I remember everything about it, actually." He glances up at the night sky, and knows her gaze has followed his. "The position of the sun in the sky above the courtyard when you shook my hand." He looks back at her, tweaking the label of her coat between his fingers. "That pretty green shirt you were wearing."

"Killian." She's smiling now, a tremulous curving of her lips, but he's not quite finished.

"I especially remember the way my heart did a bloody somersault every time you smiled at me." As if to prove his point, her smile grows at that, making his pulse quicken. "No matter what happens, love, you won't lose me, I promise."

Her lips part softly, and his own mouth tingles with the memory of her kiss. 'Why are you telling me all this now?" She puts her hands on his chest, and he thinks his heart might just pound right through his ribcage. "Why not last year, or the year before that?"

He decides that it's way past time to throw all his cards on the table, and damn the consequences. "Because I'm tired of pretending that I don't love you."

Her face begins to glow, as if someone's lit a candle inside her, and she draws in a shaky breath. "You love me."

"That I do." His heart is _definitely_ attempting to crack its way through his ribs now. "Emma-" he begins, wanting to tell her that there's no need for her to return the sentiment, not before she's ready, then realises there's something else he really needs to do before he says another word.

She makes a soft, sweet sound of surprise when he kisses her, then her mouth opens beneath his like a flower. He buries his hand in her hair, tilting back her head as their kiss deepens, tasting and teasing, and her hands slide around his waist, pulling him closer. Her mouth is sweet and hot, and he wants to sink to his knees and drown in the taste of her. When she rocks her hips into his, the soft warmth of her pressing right where he's already hard and aching, he can't choke down the strangled sound that hums in his throat.

She draws back slightly, her nose nudging his, her breath hot against his lips. Her breasts brush against his chest with every gulping breath he takes, and it takes him a moment to remember that they're in the middle of the bloody street. She touches her mouth to his again, then smiles. "Let's go home."

He grins, letting his whiskered chin brush against her throat, enjoying the shiver that goes through her. "I suppose you want your hot chocolate."

One hand slides up his back, slipping between his waistcoat and his shirt, letting him feel the warmth of her palm through the thin cotton. "Not exactly."

Curling his hand around the nape of her neck, he gently bites at her jaw, the delicate curve just beneath her ear, and she sucks in a sharp breath. "Bear claw?"

She digs her fingers into the waistband of his jeans, tugging him close, shoving one long pyjama-clad thigh between his. Her eyes are glittering like emeralds, her mouth soft and red from his kiss. "Maybe afterwards."

He doesn't need to be told twice.

* * *

><p>They make it to the apartment without causing a public scene, but it's a close thing. It's only Killian's whispered reminder about the newly installed security cameras in the elevator that has her keeping her hands to herself, and she makes a mental note to tell him off about the heated looks he keeps giving her when he knows damned well she can't do anything about them.<p>

Once they're inside, though, it's a different story.

"Pretty sure it's _bad form_ to be a big, fat tease," she quips, then breaks off, because they're finally behind closed doors and his hands are sliding up her arms and his eyes are frantically searching hers as though he's trying to get inside her head. The silence of the apartment reminds her that they're very much alone, and the impulse to blurt out everything she's keep locked down inside her head for so many years is suddenly so strong she can hardly breathe. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you what happened at dinner tonight when you asked-"

He makes a sound of pure exasperation under his breath before bends his head to hers, his palms warm against her skin as he cups her face in his hands. There is a split-second of anticipation, then his mouth is on hers and he is kissing her and she is kissing him back, the feel of his tongue brushing against hers enough to make her knees quiver.

He loves her.

Her back hits the wall of the hallway with a dull thud, then her arms are around his neck and the solid warmth of his body is pressed against her from neck to knee and, oh God, _that_ feels a thousand times better than she ever could have imagined, too. (Oh, she knows this has happened before, but that's a hazy memory compared to the solid heat of him pressing against her.) His mouth tastes of coffee and heat, his tongue curling around hers again and again, tasting and teasing, each tiny movement sending flashes of desire along every single one of her nerve-endings. By the time his hands slide down to her hips to urge her even closer, she doesn't care that there's still so many conversations they need to have.

They've got all weekend, after all.

He's whisked away her overcoat – _you look good in everything, Swan, but I'm not sure that coat goes with those pyjamas – _and is leading her into the apartment before she's even had time to blink. That's okay with her, though, because they've wasted enough time.

As soon as they reach the living room, he pulls her into his arms and kisses her until they're both breathless and flushed and she's up on her tip toes, her whole body humming with the need to get closer. He's hard against her belly, his hand buried deep in her hair, his tongue stroking hers with a tender challenge that has her kissing him back just as fiercely. When she starts to unbutton his waistcoat (things are _way _uneven here, seeing as she's only wearing her pyjamas and he's wearing too many damned layers), he nips gently at her bottom lip, one hand sliding down her back to squeeze her ass. "We appear to be spoiled for choice when it comes to boudoirs, love."

She finally gets his waistcoat open and goes to work on his shirt buttons. "You can't just say _your room or mine_?" Her fingers are clumsy, but she's a woman on a mission, and when she slips her hands inside his gaping shirt to touch his bare chest, she actually feels the rough groan that rumbles through him.

His own hands slipping underneath her top to stroke her back, he dips his head, his beard scraping lightly against her throat. "Why would I do that, Swan, when I suspect you quite _enjoy_ my poetic way of speaking?"

The way he says _enjoy _is positively obscene, and she's beginning to think that pushing him onto the nearest couch and climbing on top of him is the best way to go, multiple boudoirs be damned. Goosebumps rise up _everywhere_ in the wake of his touch, the scrape of his stubble on her skin making her nipples draw up tight and hard against the thin silk of her pyjama top. _Jesus._ Rising up on her toes again, she puts her mouth to his ear, tugging at his earlobe with her teeth until she feels him shudder. "I have condoms in _my _room."

Killian slides his arm around her waist, his breath warm against her ear. "So do I, darling, but I seem to recall that _your _bed has duckling sheets." Before she realises what he's about to do, he scoops her up as though she weighs less than nothing, swinging her into his arm's bridal style.

She clutches at his shoulders, laughing warring with embarrassment. "Seriously?"

"A man never gets a second chance to make a good first impression, darling." He carefully manoeuvres them through her bedroom doorway, then deposits her on her bed with a flourish. His chest rises and falls as he puts his hands on his hips, letting his gaze rake over her from head to toe, making her squirm with anticipation. "Now that I know you'll remember every single moment, I'm putting my best foot forward."

Sitting up, she grabs his arm and pulls him onto the bed, his laughter warm against her throat as they tumble backwards. "You're an idiot," she tells him, giving into the long-supressed urge to run her hand through his dark hair. He stretches out beside her on his side, one leg carelessly hooked over hers, propped up on one elbow, and gives her the grin that's always made her insides melt.

"Ah, but you love me anyway."

She doesn't have time to be afraid before the words are falling from her lips. "I do."

He looks shocked.

She knows the feeling.

She stares at him, feeling the ridiculous urge to laugh bubbling up in her chest. "Holy _shit_."

"Careful there, Swan." His grin is _beyond_ smug. "You might have me thinking that you actually like me."

She buries her hands in his hair again, bringing his face closer to hers. "I hate you sometimes."

"I know."

He's still grinning when he kisses her.

Then again, so is she.

Stretched out on her bed, the only light coming from the hallway through the open door, they kiss until she's completely lost track of time and her pulse seems to be thrumming through her very skin. He kisses her ten different ways, soft and sweet, deep and dirty, slow and lazy, his hands deliberately teasing. While she's indulging herself in a thorough exploration of his chest and stomach, his fingertips brush_just_ below her breasts, then _almost but not quite_ high enough along the inside curve of her thigh.

In other words, she's turned on and frustrated in equal measure, and she's not sure how much more of this she can take. "This is _not _the time to be a gentleman, Jones."

The wicked smile he gives her should be an indictable offence, she thinks. "In that case-"

Rolling her onto her back, he presses his hips firmly against hers, making her suck in a sharp breath. She wraps her legs around him, pulling her closer, and she's not sure who swears the loudest as the heavy thrust of his erection presses against her, right where she's tight and aching and _holy fuck _she needs to get those clothes off him yesterday.

Killian seems to be on the same page, because he rests his forehead against hers, his breath hot against her lips. "I'm all for the notion of _boots and all_, Swan, but perhaps I should-"

She laughs, feeling giddy and half-drunk on him and them and _this_, her hands clumsy as she starts tugging his unbuttoned shirt and waistcoat over his shoulders. "Right. Get your kit off, _mate_."

His bright blue eyes widen in delight at her terrible attempt at a cockney accent. "You're quite the cunning linguist, aren't you, darling?" he murmurs, that damned left eyebrow dancing, then he climbs off the bed before she can pinch him somewhere interesting for making such a ridiculous pun when she's barely capable of stringing two thoughts together.

He sheds his boots and most of his clothes so expertly that she makes a mental note to ask later if he'd ever done anything embarrassing to earn extra cash during college, then she can't think of anything except the fact that he's down to his underwear and his boxer shorts are sitting low on his hips and he's looking at her almost shyly, as if he's waiting for her approval.

She couldn't pretend to be unimpressed if her life depended on it and, from the smile tugging at the corner of his wide mouth, he knows it. Shimmying up the bed, she reaches for the top button of her pyjama and his gaze narrows. "Not so fast, love."

Taking a page out of his playbook, she lets the tip of her tongue tease the corner of her lips. "Well, _someone_ has to do it-"

He's kneeling over her, his hand curling around hers before her fingers touch a single button. "If I may have the honour?"

He spends the next few minutes (maybe it's a freaking hour, she seriously doesn't know anymore) very deliberately _not _undoing her buttons. Instead he sets about driving her out of her mind, shamelessly using the thin silk of her pyjamas as an accomplice. A light brush of his fingertips between her legs while he traces her collarbone with his lips, his palm grazing her breast as if by accident (she knows damned well it's not) as he casually slides his thigh against hers. Finally, feeling as though she's about to split her skin, she slips her hand between them, pressing her palm firmly against the thick ridge of his erection.

"Fuck _me_." He bites off the words on a harsh gasp, and she grins, tracing the shape of him through his boxers until his eyes are closed and his hand is flexing on her hip. "Emma, _please_-"

"Emma please what?" She shifts, curling one leg around him as she slips her hand into the waistband of his boxers, her fingertips skimming his straining erection, all smooth, hot skin and rigid need. "Please stop?" When she dances her thumb in a teasing circle, he arches into her touch, filling her palm in a way that has her belly clenching. "Please make me a cup of tea?"

He makes an unintelligible sound under his breath, then his long fingers are flicking open the buttons of her pyjama top, pushing the silken material aside until her breasts are bare under his hands and his hot blue gaze. "Please stop trying to kill me before I've even had the chance to see you naked, love," he mutters thickly, then he bows his head to her breasts to torment her with his tongue and his teeth, and she knows she couldn't think of a teasing comeback if her life depended on it.

She does, however, manage to pull her pyjama bottoms down over her hips and thighs and clumsily kick them away, then dig her thumbs into the waistband of Killian's boxers with obvious intent. As comebacks go, she thinks as she watches his eyes darken and hears his sharp intake of breath, it seems like a damned good one.

* * *

><p>She's glorious. <em>Beyond<em> glorious, in fact, and if he were capable of thinking clearly at this point in time, he might be able to come up with several other superlatives to properly describe the sight that is Emma Swan lying naked in his arms, her creamy skin flushed with desire, her green eyes glazed over with the same hunger that's got him harder than recent (and ancient as well, he can't deny it) history can recall.

(It appears that almost a decade of foreplay can have quite the effect on a man.)

All those lazy imaginings and vivid scenarios he's concocted in the dead of the night and in the bright lights of their bathroom as he found relief from the abject _longing_ in his own hand - none of them come even close to the reality of the feel of her skin against his, the smell of her filling his senses, the sound of her pleasure as he touches her.

Her hands are clever and sure, stroking and teasing until his eyes are almost rolling back in his head. When she pushes him onto his back and straddles his hips, the slick heat between her legs trapping his cock against his belly, he almost sees stars.

He's not sure he's going to survive actually being inside her, but he's willing to take that chance.

Her breasts sway enticingly close to his face as she retrieves a condom from the top drawer of her bedside table, and he doesn't bother resisting the urge to cup the soft weight of them, teasing the rosy nipples into tight peaks with his thumbs until she breathes out a shaky sigh, her fingers convulsing around the small foil packet she's holding. "Killian-"

"Killian what?" He grips her thighs, gently urging her into a slow rhythm that has their bodies sliding against each other, a sleek dance of flesh and heat that has her throwing back her head, her body arching like a bow. "Killian, stop doing _this_?"

"Fuck _you,_ Jones." The foil condom packet falls to the bed as she digs her fingernails into his hips, her retort little more than a breathless curse.

Feeling more than a little out of breath himself, he grins as he splays his hand flat on her belly, his thumb dipping into the tender hollow between her legs. "Not yet, love." The sound she makes when he finds exactly the right spot sends what little blood he has left shooting straight to his cock. She rocks against him, riding him until he's gripping her hip so tightly he's afraid he'll leave bruises, her movements becoming more and more urgent until he feels a tremor ripple through her thighs.

"Oh, _God_."

Her eyes fly open, her expression almost pleading, then she leans down to kiss him, her mouth hot, her teeth nipping hard enough to make his bottom lip sting, then she's arching against him, grinding helplessly against his cock and his hand.

(She says his name when she comes.)

He gathers her against his chest as she slumps into his arms, her breathing harsh and quick, her body still trembling as she buries her face against his chest. "Would it be too much of a cliché to say that was worth the wait?"

He grins. Raw lust is burning through his blood, his aching cock faintly pulsing with the need of her, yet he has the ridiculous thought that if this moment was all she wanted, he'd be content with that. "You alright there, Swan?"

Lifting her head, she gives him a sinful smile, shifting against him in a way that has his heart in his mouth. "I _could_ be better."

He's never torn open a condom packet faster in his life.

* * *

><p>By the time he finally - <em>finally - <em>sinks into her, she's almost clawing at his shoulders. She'd be embarrassed if the feel of him inside her wasn't making her whole body clench with pleasure. He says her name in a raw guttural whisper, then he moves against her again, filling her in a way that has her digging her fingernails into his biceps.

(She vaguely resents having to use a condom. She trusts Killian implicitly and she's on the pill, but Walsh could have lied to her about any number of things, and she's not prepared to take any chances.

Rolling it on with a deliberately slow motion until Killian's jaw had clenched had been damned fun, though. There's a silver lining in everything, she guesses.)

When he's finally buried inside her, he presses his forehead against hers, his elbows on either side of her head. "What was that about it being worth the wait, love?"

Sliding her hands down his sweat-slicked back, she grips his ass, pulling him into her, biting at his shoulder as he thrusts deep and hard. "You tell me."

Time stretches and blurs as they move together. He kisses her as if she's the most precious thing in his world, all the while doing unspeakably filthy things to her body, and the combination has her panting, teetering on the edge between anticipation and pleasure. The scent of his aftershave is sharp and spicy in her nose, the salt of his skin tangy beneath her tongue as the thick push and drag of his cock inside her makes everything tighten and grow hot, pulse points pounding in her ears, the tips of her breasts, between her legs.

The struggle to keep it together is the most erotic battle she's ever fought, and when the nerve-endings begin firing, first in her feet then streaking up the backs of her legs, she's never been happier to lose a fight. The sensation blooms into a pulsing release, pulling everything taut and heavy, then sensation flutters through her belly and groin, her whole body arching beneath his, needing more, needing him to push her through it.

He does. He kisses her, his hands tight on her hips, fucking her in a slow, steady rhythm that has her writhing, a sob caught in her throat, her fingers digging into his biceps for the second time in an embarrassingly short space of time.

When she's quietened, her chest still heaving, he bends to kiss her mouth softly, his hips moving almost imperceptibly against hers. "Bloody hell, love. If I'd known you'd make such magnificent sounds in the throes of passion, I would have been tempted to bend you over the kitchen counter and take you long ago."

She smiles at him, feeling deliciously sated, then runs her hand down his chest and belly to where their bodies are joined, sliding her fingers around the base of his cock. "Are you saying that you _weren't _tempted?"

"Of course not." He closes his eyes, his hips rocking into hers, the hard heat of him pushing deeper into her tender flesh. "Bloody torture it was, every single day."

Reaching up, she winds her arms around his neck, pulling his face down to hers for a greedy kiss, biting at his bottom lip, her tongue curling around his. When it's over, she knows she wants to make him fall apart, just as he did to her. "Did you want to fuck me that day in the bathroom?"

Opening his eyes, he stares at her with an intensity that makes her mouth go dry. "Yes."

"Want to hear a secret?"

He grows still, almost watchful. "Yes."

She lifts her hips, taking him deeper, and his rough groan is music to her ears. "I wanted it, too."

She's suddenly pressed flat into the mattress, her hands pinned on either side of her head. He's moving above her and into her, every urgent thrust accompanied by a softly spoken and politely obscene description of places he's imagined fucking her, both inside the apartment and out of it. Her skin is flaming, her face hot, the wiry hair on his chest rasping against her nipples every time he moves over her, and she has no idea how it's even possible but she's coming again, a quick and dirty little orgasm that leaves her speechless and clutching at him.

This time, he comes with her.

His face a picture of agonised delight, his teeth flash white against his beard as he grits out her name, his hands releasing hers to grip her hips, holding her still as he thrusts into her again and again, his cock finally pulsing thickly inside her.

"Emma. Oh, _Emma._"

This time, she cradles him in her arms, combing her fingers through his damp hair. She kisses his temple, tastes the frantic beating of his pulse beneath his skin, and smiles. "Worth the wait?"

"Don't quote me," he says an endless moment later, one hand coming up to lazily cup her bare breast, "but I might have even waited _another _ten years."

She tugs at his hair (she's noticed that he seems to enjoy that, and looks forward to confirming this theory) to make him lift his head, wanting to see his face. "I'm glad you didn't."

His slow smile sets her pulse aflutter, even though she can barely move a muscle. "So am I, Swan."

At two a.m., she pulls on a long t-shirt and he finds his boxers before they head to the kitchen, where he makes her a fresh mug of hot chocolate, complete with whipped cream and cinnamon. She manages to drink half of it before she's sitting on the kitchen counter, her ankles locked at the small of his back, her head falling backwards as he fucks her slowly, almost lazily, pushing her higher and higher until she tumbles over the edge.

A moment later, he buries his face against her shoulder when he comes, mouthing her name. She hears the word _love_ breathed against her skin, and she closes her eyes, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck.

She makes him try the hot chocolate (it's still warm, which says something about how easily they seem to be able to wreck each other) and when she kisses him, he tastes of cocoa and cinnamon.

He brushes her tangled hair back from her face, his eyes glowing. "Shall we go to bed, love?"

She grins. "Your boudoir or mine?"

He helps her down from the kitchen counter, then turns away to deal with the condom. It makes her smile, the way he turns his back, as if he doesn't want to offend her delicate sensibilities after he's just fucked her on a counter top. "Lady's choice," he says over his shoulder, and her smile grows.

"I've always wanted to try that big bed of yours."

He turns back to her, his dark eyebrows shooting up. "Have you now?" He offers her his arm, which is pretty damned ridiculous, giving that they're both half-naked. "Well, today's your lucky day."

She feels as though her smile just might split her face in two. "I know."

He looks at her as though she's just handed him a winning lottery ticket, rubbing the back of his neck in a quick, nervous motion. "I'm going to take you to bed now, Swan, before I can say anything stupid to ruin this absolutely perfect moment."

"Good idea." She pinches his side, finding exactly the same spot where she'd pinched him the afternoon she'd walked in on him in the bathroom. "I mean, knowing you, there's no telling how badly you could mess things between here and your bedroom door – _hey!_"

For the second time tonight, he's swept her off her feet, only this time she's over his shoulder. Breathless with laughter, she makes a grab for his muscled ass. "Are you kidding me with this?"

"Time for bed, Swan." He runs his hands up the backs of her thighs, cupping and teasing, and she swallows hard. "To sleep, of course."

"Of course," she murmurs, closing her eyes. She's exhausted, and right now the thought of doing anything other than sleeping is inconceivable. Then again, she thinks as he gently eases her to the ground and presses her back against his closed bedroom door, his mouth intoxicatingly persuasive on hers, she's been known to be wrong before.

She's wrong this time, too.

She has no idea what time it is when they finally fall asleep, but the last thing she remembers is the comforting weight of his arm draped over her hip and the sound of the dawn chorus chirping in the tree outside his bedroom window.


	11. Chapter 11

He wakes to an elbow in his ribs, a nose full of blonde hair and the smell of Emma Swan on his skin.

It's a good start to his morning under any circumstances, but the fact that he's not dreaming officially makes it the best Friday morning he's had in a very long time. Actually, he thinks as Emma shifts in her sleep beside him and burrows deeper beneath the bed clothes, it's quite possibly the best morning ever.

He carefully reaches for the phone on his bedside table, not wanting to disturb her. It's only eight o'clock, which is far too early to be awake on _any_ day he doesn't have to go into the office, let alone a momentous occasion such as the morning after he'd discovered Emma Swan loved him.

Closing his eyes, he wills himself to go back to sleep, but it's impossible. The sound of her soft breathing seems to keep time with his own heartbeat, and his hands are practically tingling with the urge to slide beneath the covers and explore all that deliciously warm, bare skin.

_Get a grip, mate, _he tells himself sternly. She's been camped out in a hotel room for the past week, and he suspects she was sleep deprived even before the business with Walsh occurred. And then there are their _own_ late night shenanigans to consider, he thinks, shifting his rock hard erection away from the swell of her bare arse, remembering those very shenanigans with great relish.

_Bloody hell._

He rubs his hand over his eyes. As he sees it, he has two options here. He can roll her onto her back and wake her in a rather uncouth (but undoubtedly satisfying) fashion after she's only had a few hours sleep, or he can be a gentleman and take this time to visit the bathroom and perhaps power up the espresso machine for when they eventually emerge from his room.

(He decides to be a gentleman.

There are times when he surprises even himself.)

Tugging on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, he pads softly from his room on bare feet. The central heating in their apartment has always been top notch, but right now he doubts he'd notice if his toes developed frostbite and dropped off. Every muscle he owns seems to be aching pleasantly, and the bathroom mirror tells him that not only is he sporting a very smug grin and the most tragic case of sex hair he's seen in a good while, but also several blush-red bite marks on his throat and chest and - _oh, how could he possibly forget_, he thinks as he lifts his t-shirt_-_ stomach.

Running his damp hands through his hair helps somewhat, but he suspects nothing will wipe the grin from his face.

She _loves _him.

In the kitchen, he fills the water reservoir of the espresso machine and checks on the existence of milk in the refrigerator in record time, then makes his way back to his room. In the doorway, he pauses to watch as Emma stretches her arms above her head, blinking slowly as she takes in her surroundings, given him the chance to take in _her, _all tousled hair and kiss-reddened lips.

Before he can do more than put one foot into his bedroom, though, she sits upright with a start, clutching the top of his duvet to her bare breasts. "Killian, what the _hell_?"

He walks towards the bed, hoping he hasn't committed some post-coital faux pas in her book by not being there when she woke. "What's wrong, love?"

"Why am I in your bed?" Her eyes widen as she tightens her grip on the duvet, then narrow in a glare that has him almost taking a step backwards. "And why the _fuck _am I naked?"

Bamboozled by both his own lack of sleep and a sudden, miserable sense of déjà vu, he can only stare at her, open-mouthed. "Uh-"

She glowers up at him for precisely three extremely long and unpleasant seconds, then grins. "God, you're easy."

"Bloody hell." Striding to the bed, he pulls back the covers with a flourish, eliciting a charming shriek of protest as the cool air hits her bare skin. "You'll pay for that, wench."

The smile she gives him is positively sinful. "I sure hope so."

His planned retort dies on the tip of his tongue as she curls her fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls him towards her. His knees hit the bed as her right hand dips between his legs, and he's rather relieved he's not standing, given the sudden lack of blood supply to his brain stem. "I thought I'd let you sleep a while longer-" he manages to say, then he's flat on his back and Emma's thighs are clamped around his hips as she looks down at him with a smug grin that rivals his own.

(That he notices the timbre of her smile while her bare breasts are swaying enticingly before him is a great feat of willpower, he feels.)

"Well, I appreciate the thought," she murmurs as she scratches her fingernails lightly down his stomach beneath his t-shirt, "but I'd rather make up for lost time if that's okay with you."

She's barely touched him, but his whole body is already humming with anticipation. "Far be it from me to deny a lady her first wish for the day."

She smirks, running her hands up his arms and pinning his wrists to the pillow on either side of his head, and he suddenly fears he might just embarrass himself on the spot. Grinding lazily into him, she leans down and presses her forehead against his, her nipples brushing against his thin t-shirt. "Even if her first wish is to take a shower?"

_Well,_ he thinks, _it's official._She's trying to kill him.

"I'm a flexible man, Swan."

Lifting her head, she flashes him a smile, her cheeks colouring in a blush despite the fact she's as naked as the day she was born and straddling him in quite an indecent fashion. "So I noticed last night."

He grins, tugging his hands out of her grip to run them up her thighs before cupping her lovely breasts, enjoying the way she arches into his touch, her teeth white against her bottom lip. "Don't forget this morning."

Another coy smile, another wriggle of her hips against his, another shockwave of arousal shooting straight to his cock. "As if I could."

If he survives this morning, he decides, he's going to start going to the gym again, because he's not certain his heart should be racing quite so fast. "Are you always this much of a temptress, love?"

Her hands glide further under his t-shirt, her blunt thumbnails scrap over his nipples. "Trust me, I'll be even worse after I've had a hot shower."

Only the thought of that hot shower and her skin against his, slippery and wet, stops him from taking this particular tussle to its natural conclusion. "In that case, I'm all yours."

She looks at him, his teasing words seeming to hang in the air between them, then she smiles. "I noticed _that _last night, too."

They untangle themselves clumsily, laughing as her foot gets caught in the duvet, then he wraps his favourite robe around her. "Can't have you catching a chill on the long journey, Swan," he tells her, and the warmth of her smile makes him feel as though he could float to the bloody bathroom.

"Give me five minutes."

Running his hand down her back to cup one shapely arse cheek (he doesn't remember this robe ever feeling quite so good when _he_ wears it), he presses a kiss to her temple. "I'll check the coffee bean supply."

He watches her saunter towards the smaller bathroom attached to the main bedroom (he's fairly certain she's swinging her hips like that on purpose) then gives himself a mental shake. Morphing from housemates into lovers is proving to be quite the education. On one hand, he can still make her blush with a teasing quip. On the other, she's just matter-of-factly asked him to excuse her for a private bathroom break before they have sex in their shared shower stall.

He grins, deciding he'll check the coffee bean status later. Right now, he might just go and work up a little welcoming steam.

* * *

><p>She's being an idiot, she knows that, but this is what she does when she's feeling overwhelmed. She shuts herself in a bathroom, takes ten deep breaths, then reminds herself there's nothing in this world that she can't handle.<p>

She's not panicking over having slept with Killian, not really. She just really needed to pee, then maybe swipe some of Mary Margaret's spearmint mouthwash before she even _thinks_ about French kissing anyone at eight in the morning.

Well, she thinks as she runs her hands through her crazy bed hair, maybe she _does _need a few minutes to come to terms with the shift in their relationship, but that's normal, right? Even though Killian's literally seen her at her worst many times over the last decade, it's perfectly normal to be hiding out in the second bathroom, gargling mouthwash and splashing water on her sleep-puffy eyes.

All she can say in her defence is that she's only human.

A moment later, she finds the door to the main bathroom open, steam already hanging in the air, along with the spicy scent of Killian's body wash.

Oh, and he's _singing._

She listens for a moment, then rolls her eyes, grinning. Over the years, she's heard him sing any number of times (in the bathroom, while he's driving, even while they're throwing together a meal in the kitchen) but this is different. Right now, he's singing a song she remembers playing last night when she'd been telling him about Walsh. Her hands going to the sash of her borrowed robe, she waltzes into the bathroom. "Tainted Love? Really?"

"Nothing wrong with a bit of Soft Cell, Swan," he informs her loftily as she pulls her hair back into a hasty ponytail. "Although I fundamentally object to their works being included in a program dedicated to so-called one hit wonders. When I was a lad, they had several songs in the UK top ten."

Grinning, she tries the switch for the exhaust fan, just in case, and isn't surprised to see it still hasn't been fixed. "Are you done?"

"I could go on for hours about the myopic viewpoint of American television programming, darling, as you well know." The glass of the shower stall is completely fogged up, but she doesn't need to see his face to know he's smirking, damn him. "But you're most welcome to come in here and shut me up, love."

Shrugging out of the robe, she drapes it carelessly over the nearest towel rack. "If I'd known it was _that _easy to get you to shut up, I might have done this a long time ago." She pulls open the glass shower door, and just like that, feels as though she's had the wind knocked out of her.

She was expecting him to be naked.

She was expecting him to be wet and soapy.

She –

Actually, she's not sure what she was expecting, but it definitely wasn't to feel like a blushing virgin at the sight of him.

"You alright there, Swan?"

She manages to tear her gaze away from, well, _everything, _and meet his eyes, her pulse accelerating at the dark hunger glowing in them. Given the fact that they've spent the better part of the night fucking each other into quivering oblivion, she decides his ego doesn't need to be stroked than it already has. "It's been a while since I shared a shower with anyone, that's all."

"Just when I think your last boyfriend couldn't be any more of a complete git, I discover that he can." Reaching out, he offers her his hand, as though he's assisting her to climb into a royal coach rather than a water slicked shower stall. "May I have the honour?"

"You may." She takes his hand and steps inside the stall, pulling the glass door shut behind her. "You said my _last_ boyfriend."

He slips his arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him, and her belly clenches at the feel of his skin on hers, slippery and warm. "What of it?"

Somehow he's managed to get both the water temperature and the angle of the nozzle exactly right (nothing worse than a face full of tepid water when you're trying to seduce someone), and she smiles as she leans into him, pushing him back against the tiled wall of the shower. "Well, the phrase does seem to imply that I have a _current _boyfriend."

"As I said earlier, love, I'm all yours." His gaze is steady, those unbelievably blue eyes burning into hers as though he's trying to see into the far corners of her darkest secrets. "Only if you'll have me, of course."

_Oh, God._

It's way too early for this kind of thing, she thinks dazedly, then she's kissing him, her arms winding around his neck, and she knows she's just given him as good an answer as any. His mouth tastes of her favourite toothpaste and is as warm and slick as the hands that slide down her back to grip her ass, hauling her against him. When the thick ridge of his erection presses into her belly, she makes a choked sound against his mouth, and feels his lips curve into a smile. "I'll take that as a yes, shall I?"

"Yes." She kisses his jaw, then his throat, her own hands busily exploring the hollows beneath his hipbones, breathing out her answer against his skin. "_Yes._"

The next fifteen minutes forever change her view on the slippery logistics of shower sex. She'd been telling the truth about it being a long time since she shared a shower with anyone. Even if she'd been lying, she doubts that it would have compared to what she's feeling right now. Warm water sluices over her shoulders and back as she bites back a moan, Killian's long fingers dipping between her legs, slippery with bodywash and her own frantic need for him. She bites at his mouth, sliding her tongue between his lips as she starts to lazily stroke her hand up and down the slippery length of his erection. He jerks at her touch, but the hand between her legs doesn't falter, his fingers curling inside her in a relentless rhythm that has her rising up on her toes, panting open-mouthed against his throat.

"Fuck. That feels so good. Oh, _fuck-_"

His voice is rough and wicked in her ear, his cock pulsing in her hand. "My thoughts exactly, Swan."

She falls first, her legs shaking as the tight knot of tension unravels in a hot rush of release, gasping at the feel of his fingers thrusting inside her. After a long moment spent with her head buried against his shoulder, she kisses his throat, then sets herself the pleasurable task of finding out how hard she can make him come with just her hand.

As it turns out, pretty damned hard.

She kisses the ragged groan from his lips (he says her name, again and again) his flesh slick and hot in her hand as he shudders into her touch. When it's over, he slumps back against the tiled wall, wrapping his arms around her. He kisses her cheek, then her shoulder, then the crook of her neck, the scrape of his beard against her wet skin sending goosebumps skittering, despite the steam. His breathing is as laboured as hers, but his words are crystal clear.

"That was bloody brilliant."

Running her hands through his wet hair, she can't help the smile that beams across her face. "I know, right?"

* * *

><p>"That's not the only thing you're having for breakfast, surely?"<p>

Emma pauses in her elegant destruction of the bear claw in her hand long enough to wave the offending pastry at him, and he briefly entertains the notion of bending down and licking the smudge of sugar clinging to her bottom lip. "Hey, you bought them. You can't blame me for eating them."

He slides her coffee in front of her, wondering how she'd react if he offered to cook her something more substantial. He's making a conscious effort not to smother her, but good Lord, that donut looks appalling. Of course, he's hardly one to talk, considering his breakfast consisted of toast slathered with whiskey infused marmalade. "I was trying to make amends, darling, not put you in a sugar coma before midday."

Picking up her coffee mug, she takes a long, clearly appreciative sip, then bats her eyelashes at him. "Tell you what. If I'm still conscious tonight, you can make me something ridiculously healthy for dinner."

Dropping into the chair opposite her, he stretches out his legs beneath the table until his calf is pressed against hers. "And here I thought you might like to actually leave the apartment and go somewhere nice for dinner."

"I went somewhere nice for dinner last night. "She wrinkles her nose as she rubs her leg lazily against his. "Look how well that turned out."

He grins at her, feeling ludicrously giddy. "Worked out rather well for _me_, I must say."

She aims a gentle kick at his ankle with the toe of her slipper, the corners of her mouth turning downward slightly. "You know what I mean."

He hesitates to denigrate her choice in men (he is, after all, finally one of those choices) but he can't bear to see her even the slightest bit despondent over that oxygen thief of an ex-lover. "I do, and the dire outcome of your dinner date last night had nothing to do with the venue or the quality of the food on offer." Reaching out, he gives into temptation and brushes the errant smudge of sugar from her bottom lip with his thumb. "More importantly, love, it had nothing to do with _you_."

Something akin to embarrassment flashes across her face. "Aren't we the silver-tongued devil this morning?"

Pushing aside his coffee mug, he half-rises from his seat, leaning across the table to kiss her. Her lips part softly beneath his, her tongue flavoured with coffee and sugary pastry. He can definitely bear the taste of those wretched donuts when delivered in such a delightful fashion, he thinks, then he lifts his head. "What can I say, love? You've always inspired me to verbosity."

"Is that so?" She looks pleasantly flustered, twin spots of colour staining her high cheekbones as she licks her lips, as if tasting marmalade. "And what is it about me that inspires you, exactly?"

"Impossible to narrow it down, I'm afraid." He cups her chin in his hand, teasing its tiny dimple with his thumb. (He'd kissed her there last night, and he knows the sight of it will forever make him smile.) "I'm a fan of every part of you, Swan."

Turning her head, she kisses the swell of his thumb, her lips warm against his skin. "You know what I'd like to do today?"

Her words are innocent of even the tiniest hint of innuendo, but his body still snaps to attention. "I'm all ears."

She grins, her eyes alight with contentment. "Nothing."

His chest tightens. He can't remember the last time he saw her smile like that at _anyone_, let alone at his good self. "Then nothing is exactly what we shall do."

As it turns out, doing nothing Emma Swan-style means sprawling on the couch and watching old movies until she falls asleep in the circle of his arm, her cheek against his chest. He can't think of a better way to avoid the retail madness taking place in the outside world, to be honest.

He carefully shifts position until he's more comfortable, then gathers her close enough to bury his nose in the fragrant tumble of her hair. She'd dressed in those bloody silk pyjamas after their shower this morning, and the thin fabric does nothing to hide the fact she'd decided underwear was superfluous. Sighing softly, he contents himself with occasionally brushing his fingertips down her arm while he watches Gregory Peck stride masterfully about the television screen.

She sleeps for almost an hour and, when she wakes, there is no trace of awkwardness in the smile she gives him. Indeed, he barely has time to return the smile before she's slipped her hand beneath his button-down shirt to etch languid patterns on his stomach. "What are we watching?"

His breath catches in his throat as her roaming fingertips dance over the button fly of his jeans. "Does it matter?"

She curls her other hand around the nape of his neck, bringing his face down to hers. "Nope."

They kiss for a long time, hands sliding beneath clothing to touch and tease, his thigh pressed hard between her legs (God, he can feel the heat of her through his jeans), her body soft and pliant against his. When he mouths at her breast through the silk of her pyjama top, she makes a sound that sends a shock of pure lust rippling through him. He closes his teeth over the stiff rise of her nipple and she arches beneath him, her thighs falling open in obvious invitation. As he rocks against her with short, heavy thrusts of his hips, her kisses become fiercer, almost challenging, and he wants her more than he could ever articulate, even in the plainest of English.

This goes on for several more torturous moments and, through the haze of desire, he realises he's never truly realised the full erotic potential of making love with one's clothes still on. Still, there's a lot to be said for bare skin, and when he unbuttons her pyjama shirt and kisses a path across the valley between her breasts, it seems Emma is of the same opinion.

Pulling at the waistband of his jeans, she gives him a faintly glazed smile. "Seriously, I don't know why you bothered putting so many layers on this morning." She flicks opens the top three buttons of his fly, then slips her hand inside his jeans, quickly discovering she wasn't the only one who hadn't bothered donning underwear this morning. "I stand corrected." He sucks in a sharp breath as she cups him in her hand, the deft stroking of her thumb already driving him mad, the tip of her pink tongue making a fleeting appearance at the corner of what can only be described as a salacious smile. "I guess you left off a few layers after all."

Silently counting to ten, he skims his palm over her hip, then up her side (she twitches at that, and he files away the word _ticklish_ for further consideration) until he's cupping the warm weight of her breast. "I'm not just a pretty face, Swan."

"Smart enough to think ahead and have a condom in the pocket of those jeans?"

"Alas, no." He pushes himself off her (his body may never forgive him), then holds out his hand to her. "Shall we retire to a bedroom?"

She shakes her head, stretching out on the couch with a faintly obscene arch of her back. "Here's good."

Ten steps from the couch to his bedroom nightstand, seven steps back to her side. He may have ramped up his speed a little at the end there, he suspects. Even so, he almost misses the sight of Emma shimmying out of her pyjamas and tossing them onto the coffee table. "Bloody hell, woman." He pulls his shirt up and over his head, slinging it to join her small pile of clothing. "_Temptress_ doesn't even begin to describe _this _kind of behaviour."

She flashes him a teasingly injured glance from beneath dark lashes. "If you want me to stop-"

Dropping the condom packet onto the coffee table, he sinks to his knees beside the couch, circling her ankles with his fingers. "Scoot over here, love."

He sees her pale throat work as she swallows hard. "Why?"

In answer, he slips his hands beneath her arse, effortlessly pulling her to sit on the edge of the couch. "You'll see."

Thirty seconds later, he's kissing a teasing path up her inner thigh, then up her belly, then down around, biting and licking her soft skin until he feels the impatient press of her fingernails against his scalp. "Get on with it, Jones."

"Hmm." He brushes his palm over the swell of her mons pubis, knowing he's torturing them both. "Actually, I'm not sure you could handle it, Swan."

"Pretty sure I can."

He chuckles at the thready catch in her voice, deliberately scraping his whiskered chin in a slow, downward trail from her navel until he can feel the tension humming through her. When he finally puts his mouth on her, dipping his tongue into the salty sweet heat between her legs, her sharp gasp of pleasure is music to his ears.

She is glorious.

He barely notices the hard floorboards beneath his knees. All he knows is Emma, the taste of her, the feel of her against his tongue. The sounds she's making, breathless hitches of air as she lifts her hips, pressing herself against his mouth, her fingers flexing on his scalp. "Killian, please-"

He closes his eyes, savouring the slippery shape of her on his tongue, the tension growing in her thighs as she struggles to contain the release he can feel building in her. "You taste marvellous, Swan," he breaths against her heated flesh, and her hips rise in a silent plea.

"_Jesus_. I can't-"

"Yes, you can." He slips two fingers inside her, his tongue still coaxing and teasing, and her breathing becomes erratic. He draws her into his mouth, sucking hard, and it all falls into place.

"Fuck, _Killian-_"

(Afterwards, he will find himself remembering the moment she let herself lose control, deciding that while she might be glorious in the flush of desire, she's truly magnificent when she comes.)

She lies still for a long moment, one arm flung over her face, her breasts delicately heaving as she struggles to catch her breath. He discreetly wipes his mouth on the back of his hand (they may have had sex several times in the last twenty-four hours, but he's still learning her likes and dislikes), and grins at the limp gesture she makes with her free hand. "Come here."

His jeans are swiftly tossed onto the coffee table, and he doesn't waste time mucking about with any erotic foreplay nonsense when it comes to condom application. She shifts on the couch to make room for him, then her legs are wrapped around his hips and he's sinking into the tight heat of her in a thick rush of potent sensation that has him choking back a groan.

The rough fabric of the couch cushions rubs against his knees but again, he barely notices.

All he knows is Emma, the heavy drag of his cock inside her, the teasing brush of her nipples against his chest as they move together, the arch of her throat as she tosses back her head, her eyes screwed tight as her body starts to flutter around him.

When she says his name like it's a four-letter word, wrapping her tongue around each syllable on a breathless gasp, he yields to the inevitable, thrusting into her faster and harder, his own release nipping at his heels. She's still shuddering beneath him when he comes, a hoarse groan tearing from his throat as he presses himself deep inside her, his cock pulsing madly, the blood roaring in his ears.

(She might indeed be trying to kill him, but she's definitely worth the risk.)

He has no idea how long they lie tangled on the couch, his head on her breast, her arms around his shoulders. Finally, she heaves a sigh that sounds as though it's been dragged up from her toes, one hand languidly stroking up and down his sweat-dampened back. "I think I need another shower."

He grins, rubbing his cheek against the soft swell of her breast. "I don't think I have it in me, love."

She pinches him between the third and fourth rib (in the same damned place as usual, he realises, he's going to develop quite the bruise in that spot), her quiet laughter stirring his rumpled hair. "Strictly for washing purposes only."

"Now _that _I can manage." He rolls to one side, giving her room to swing her legs over the side of the couch. As he does, his gaze falls open the neat pile of splintered wood still sitting on the living room rug. "And afterwards, I might take the remains of your little table down to the trash."

Her face flushes in a manner that has nothing to do with the naked tango they've just enjoyed on the couch. "I meant to do that last night."

He rubs her back gently. "Of course, if you'd rather set fire to the wreckage then salt the ashes, may I suggest the rooftop terrace?"

She laughs, a lilting sound that warms his heart, the despondency vanishing from her eyes. "Tempting, but I'm good." She scrambles off the couch, giving him an outstanding view of her splendid arse, then gathers up her discarded pyjamas. She lobs his jeans at him, landing them squarely in his lap, and she flashes him an apologetic grin. "Sorry."

He looks down at the jeans, then up at her. "If you want me to cover up, love, all you have to do is ask."

Her grin widens. "You won't be able to walk around in the buff when David and Mary Margaret get home, you know."

After so many years of pretending he doesn't fancy this woman, allowing himself the simple pleasure of feasting his eyes upon her is quite the milestone. He lets his gaze skim over her, knowing his appreciation will be plainly evident, then sighs dramatically. "That's true, Swan, but the real tragedy is that neither will you."

Rolling her eyes, she clutches her wadded-up pyjamas to her stomach, which does nothing to hide her charms, either above or below deck. "Speaking of our housemates, can I ask you something?"

He gives her a beseeching look as he gestures towards her, well, _everything_. "Far be it from me to spoil the mood, love, but if you require me to string together words in a sensible fashion, perhaps it could wait until after you're dressed?"

Another eye roll, this time accompanied by a smirk of triumph. "What was that you said before about not being able to handle it?"

Putting aside his jeans, he gets to his feet and saunters towards her, smiling as her dark eyelashes flutter against her cheeks. "Just being a realist, darling, but if you'd prefer to have this conversation while we're naked as the day we were born, I'm always _up _for a challenge."

Her gaze slides lower, just as he knew it would, and the blush that steals across her cheeks makes him want to gather her into his arms and kiss her until they're both desperate for air. "Good point."

"Go enjoy your shower in peace, Swan. I'll make myself useful in the kitchen." He gives into the temptation to gently tap her arse as she turns away, and the glittering promise of retribution in the look she flashes him over her shoulder as she flees towards the bathroom is the stuff of which his dreams have been made for the last decade.

Perhaps he should ask her to pinch him again, he thinks with a grin as he picks up his clothes and heads towards his bedroom, just to make sure he's not dreaming.

* * *

><p><em>Smug bastard<em>, Emma thinks with cheerful resentment as she has a lightning-quick shower that's little more than a 'splash and dash' under the hot water. To be fair, he does have reason to be smug. She's already lost track of how many times he's turned her into a quivering mess, and they haven't even been together for twenty-four hours. She's more than a little tender in several interesting places, but the thought that they have the apartment all to themselves for another three days still makes her pulse race and her belly clench.

Well, she_did_ say she wanted to make up for lost time, she muses. Maybe she actually should let him feed her something nutritious for dinner tonight. She has the feeling she's going to need all the energy she can muster.

She pulls her hair back in a loose ponytail, suspecting she'd be wasting her time on anything more elaborate, then frowns at the vivid bite mark just below her collar bone. She touches a fingertip to it, remembering how she'd come by it (he'd been buried deep inside her, his mouth hot on her throat and shoulder) and a slow beat of arousal pulses between her legs. She puts her hands on the edge of the vanity, suddenly feeling more than a little light-headed. God, how is this even real? How is _any_ of this real?

After she's finally dressed in something other than pyjamas, she finds Killian in the kitchen, he's made two mugs of hot chocolate and is too busy dubiously studying the box of donuts he brought home the night before to notice her standing in the doorway.

"Are those my apology donuts?"

Startled, he almost fumbles his grip on the box, but recovers quickly, giving an easy smile at her. "Well, I knew better than to give you flowers, love."

His casual remark (which she knows isn't casual at all, because she knows _him_) brings Walsh into her thoughts with a dull thud. "It's a smart guy who learns from someone else's mistakes, I guess."

"Indeed." He slides a steaming mug across the counter top towards her. "Of course, given your last boyfriend's transgressions, I'd be hard pressed _not_ to learn a lesson or two." The dimple in his bearded cheek flashes as he grins at her. "Or ten."

She tries to be offended, but she can't, not when he's so obviously Team Emma, as Mary Margaret would say. "You wanna put your muscle where your mouth is and help me take that pile of wood down to the dumpster?"

"Soon, I promise." He nudges the mug towards her once again. "I'm determined to see you finish at least one cup of cocoa before it goes cold this weekend."

She looks at him, thinking of the last hot chocolate he'd made her. It had been at two o'clock this morning, when she'd only managed a few mouthfuls before he'd kissed her, his hands sliding beneath the hem of her long t-shirt to press his palm between her legs. She'd pretty much forgotten something called chocolate even existed at that point. "And whose fault is that?"

"Guilty as charged, I suppose." Grinning, he sheepishly adjusts the button fly of his jeans, then flips open the box of donuts. "What on earth are those ones with the brown goo on top, do you think?"

She peers into the box, then smiles. "Salted caramel."

He raises one dark eyebrow at her. "Ah, the one hipster food trend I can stomach."

Reaching out one hand, she pulls the box towards her for closer examination. He'd bought the most expensive ones, of course, but it's the thought of him stopping off on the way home after their fight that makes something tighten deep in her chest. "You know, you didn't owe me an apology," she tells him, the words feeling clumsy on her tongue. "What you said was all true."

He looks at her steadily, and she sees the flash of guilt in his eyes. "That may well be, love, but it still doesn't excuse my harshness."

She takes a deep breath. This time yesterday, this conversation would have been beyond the realm of possibility. Now, she's determined to start with a clean slate, even if that means admitting things she swore blind she'd never admit. "I've said some harsh things to you over the years, too."

Still smiling, he pulls a face, his bright blue eyes widening. "Don't I know it?" His smile fades as he drums the fingers of one hand on the counter top, rubbing the back of his neck with the other. Both are nervous gestures she remembers well from their college poker games, and her heart lurches. "Look, I'd just spent the whole evening thinking that I'd ruined our friendship," he finally mutters, his gaze locking with hers. "Even if you threw the box back in my face and tossed the ice cream onto the floor, I had to try to make amends somehow." He lifts his shoulders in a shrug, his smile a shadow of its usual self. "I knew I might be coming home to the unhappy news that you'd agreed to marry Monkey Boy, but the idea of you no longer being my friend was even worse."

Emma stares at him. Just like the morning he'd left that ridiculous post-it on her lunch box, she's suddenly gripped a wave of emotion so strong that she's moving towards him and kissing him with so much force that he rocks back on his heels. She pulls away before he can return the kiss properly, and she grins at the bewildered look on his face. "Look at you, being all sentimental."

Bewilderment turns to indignation, but she sees the amusement dancing in his eyes. "Are you mocking my pain, Swan?"

"Definitely not." She plays with the unfastened buttons on his shirt, torn between revealing another of her own secrets and teasing him a little more. "I mean, I'm the one who stashed a post-it note with a swan on it in my dresser drawer, so, you know." Something other than amusement suddenly flickers in his eyes, and she pokes her index finger into a distractingly firm pectoral muscle. "Don't tell me you kept that stupid note I left you before I left for New York."

"Can you keep a secret, love?" He leans forward, brushing his lips against her ear. "It's in my sock drawer."

She starts to laugh, thinking she would have put more effort into her terrible drawings if she'd thought he'd keep the damned thing, then stops, something else important registering with her. "Wait a minute. You bought ice cream too?"

Smiling, he shakes his head. "Oh, for the love of-" He kisses her, pushing her gently back against the kitchen counter, his hips fitting against hers with a precision that has her knees turning to water. When he finally lifts his head, her hands are twisted in the front of his button down, her breath coming fast. "Yes, I bought ice cream, too. I was a desperate man. There's a whole tub of peanut butter swirl in the freezer, and if you're a good girl, you can have some after dinner."

Never in her life has she heard the words _good girl_ sound so suggestive, and she knows that unless she wants to end up naked on the kitchen table, maybe they should take their drinks elsewhere. Not that it's an unappealing idea, but she really does want to be able to look Mary Margaret and David in the eye when they get home. "Speaking of salted caramel donuts, I haven't told you about my New York trip."

His eyes light up with curiosity. "After such an intriguing segue, love, I'm afraid I must demand you tell me every single detail at once."

They end up pulling on their coats and taking their drinks (and yes, the box of donuts) to the roof terrace. It's a sunny day, but there's a definite bite to the air, and she's glad of the warm mug cradled in her hands. They drag two chairs to the small wooden table in the area they've always thought of as their apartment's territory, and she proceeds to tell him about her female embezzler and how her downfall came about over a box of salted donuts in a convenience store.

As usual, he's an attentive audience, laughing at her sarcastic editorial comments and asking questions when he doesn't feel she's giving him quite enough detail to paint the proper picture. It's very different from when Walsh used to quiz her about her captures, and a ripple of unease twists through her stomach. She hadn't really had time to dwell on everything Kathryn had told her the night before, but now, here in a quiet moment, it comes rushing back to her. Killian, just as he always does, picks up on her change in mood quickly.

"You alright there, Swan? You seem vexed."

She hesitates, then blurts out her fears that Walsh had been pumping her (she holds up her hand to him at this point, telling him not to say a word, and he merely wriggles his dark eyebrows at her) for information about the local criminal underground. He listens intently, then reaches out to squeeze her hand. "If that's what he was doing, love, then it will only contribute to his downfall."

"How so?"

"Six degrees of separation, darling." He rubs his thumb over her knuckles. "Sooner or later, every tangled web will be traced back to its central point, so to speak, and I can only assume he'd find it very hard to explain why he's been associating with so many of your former captures."

She stares at him. She has spent so much time goofing around with him (not just the last twenty four hours, but always) that sometimes she forgets that he's scary smart. Still, old habits die hard, and she can't resist teasing him. "Should I be worried that what you're saying makes perfect sense to me?"

Lifting his hand to her face, he touches his fingertip to the end of her nose, making her blink. He's done that to her before, she realises, when they'd been grocery shopping and bickering over chocolate biscuits. "You can pretend you're not impressed all you like, Swan, but I know different now."

She laughs, pulling the cardboard box towards her to see if anything inspires her. "I'm tired of talking about me," she tells him, eyeing a chocolate glazed donut. "How are things at the office?"

"Not too shabby, actually." He tells her about his new secretary (Ariel, she thinks. Good grief.) and a few of his newest cases, with just enough detail to make a good story. Despite his droll recapping of his clients' various matrimonial woes, it's clear that he has nothing against the institution of marriage itself.

_Good_, she finds herself thinking, and is promptly horrified. She buries her nose in her mug, hoping very hard that he can't read her expression. God, where had _that_ come from?

"Tell me, love, what was it that you wanted to ask me?"

_Saved by the pedantic lawyer,_ she thinks with great relief. "Okay, here's the thing." She takes a few seconds to steel herself. This honesty business is quite draining, but she's determined to push through all the crap that's piled up between them. "David's been on my back about you."

He leans one elbow on the table, his chin cupping in his hand, his expression focused. "Do tell."

"Somehow he guessed that I, well, that I-"

Grinning, he reaches out and gently tugs at the end of her ponytail. "No need to be embarrassed, Swan, we both know that you're mad about me."

She glares at him as best she can as he curls her hair around his fingers. "What are you, twelve? Are you going to kick my shins and run away now?"

His grin doesn't falter. "Look who's talking, love." Putting his hand to his side, he rubs his ribcage. "Care to see my bruise?"

_Okay, so she kind of deserved that one,_ she admits reluctantly. "Well, _anyway_, he guessed. I told him that he had to keep his mouth shut or I'd disown him, and all he kept saying was that I should talk to you." She watches his face carefully, hoping for clues. "Oh, and when I told him that I wasn't your type, he laughed in my face."

Kilian nods, looking as though he's weighing up a witness' testimony. "Smart man, that Dave." He looks at her. "He gave me the same lecture, more or less."

Her mouth doesn't fall open, but it's a close thing. "Seriously?"

"Indeed." He gives her a satisfied smile. "Then I got him stinking drunk and gave him the perfect excuse not to go antiquing the next morning."

She shakes her head, impressed despite herself. "Where the hell was I during all this?"

"In NY, remember?"

Emma blinks. "Right." The days have all seemed to bleed into each other lately, making it hard to keep track. "While we're dredging up ancient history, I guess now would be a good time to tell you that I had an interesting conversation with MM the night the four of us went out to dinner."

He sits up a little straighter at that, his gaze suddenly locking with hers. "About?"

"You."

His lips part, as if he's about to speak, but she goes on quickly. "She told me that you'd asked her if I was seeing anyone when we first met."

He looks as though he's about to deny it, then he shrugs. "That would be correct."

She can't help herself. Leaning across the table, she punches him lightly in the bicep. "I guess my question is why didn't you just ask me out? And don't give me that _good form_ crap about me already dating someone, because I _know _how you operated when we were in college."

He rubs his arm, his wide mouth pressed into a tight line. "I'd been reliably informed that you were very happy with your man at the time, love. I had no wish to rock the boat, so to speak."

He means Neal, of course. She doesn't bother telling him that Mary Margaret has always seen the world through rose-coloured glasses, especially when it came to Emma's relationships. He might already know bits and pieces about how that particular fairy tale ending imploded, but that's definitely a story for another day. "Like you thought I was very happy with Walsh?"

"Indeed." She huffs out a sigh as she looks at him, and he gives her a sheepish smile. "I admit it, there appears to be a pattern to my misguided sense of chivalry."

"You think?" She shakes her head, then pushes the past aside, at least for the moment. They've got ten years' worth of secrets to disclose, and there's no rule that says they have to get through them all in one day. There is one thing she needs to know, though. "Can I ask you one more thing?"

He tilts his head backwards, as if bracing himself. "Fire away."

"Would you have really moved out?" She nudges his knee with hers beneath the small table. "If we hadn't worked things out?"

The question obviously takes him by surprise, but he doesn't sugar coat his reply. "Yes."

Despite the fact things are very different between them now, his answer still sends an anxious pang through her. "But not anymore, right?"

Her voice sounds small and alone (God, she hates that she can still feel this way), but she barely has time to draw another breath before he's shifted to sit on the edge of his chair, his legs tangling with hers as his hands come up to cup her face. "I'm been waiting for you for a long time, love." His mouth is suddenly warm on hers, his lips and tongue gentle as he coaxes a breathless sigh of pleasure from her, then he pulls back, his eyes searching her face. "I'm not going anywhere, trust me."

Hooking her arm around his neck, she presses her cheek to his, the scent of him filling her senses, the steady rhythm of his breath against her ear more soothing than she would ever have thought possible. "Good."

* * *

><p>In the end, they neither cook nor eat anything particularly nutritious for dinner. He steps out to pick up a takeout order of Thai food from their usual place, coming home to an apartment filled with softly playing music and Emma putting clean sheets on her bed with the swift proficiency of a hotel chambermaid. He leans against the frame of her open bedroom door, smiling as he watches her fluff the pillows with a determination that borders on violence. "Need a hand, love?"<p>

She jumps, then turns to face him, her hand over her heart. "Damn it, Killian. You have_got_ to stop creeping up on me like that."

"It's hardly creeping if I live here, surely." He grins as he lifts the plastic takeout bag aloft, trying and failing not to stare at the picture she makes in her jeans and soft green sweater. "Nevertheless, will you accept some Pad Thai as an apology?"

Her eyes light up. "Definitely." She tosses the pillow she's holding onto the bed behind her, then follows him down the hallway towards the kitchen. "I thought maybe we could eat in here, rather than in front of the television."

In the kitchen, he discovers that she's set the small kitchen table for dinner for two, complete with wine glasses and an unopened bottle of his favourite merlot. "Very inviting, Swan. May I ask what's brought on this wave of domesticity?"

She shrugs, looking almost bashful. "It's the first time we've eaten dinner together since, you know." As he starts pulling the plastic containers from the takeout bag, she gestures towards the table. "And you wanted to take me somewhere nice for dinner, so-"

Maybe one day she'll stop making him feel as though he loves her so much he can barely breathe. Today is not that day, however. "It looks lovely."

The dimple at the corner of her lips flashes as she smiles at him, obviously pleased by his reaction. "Not a patch on the holiday table settings that David and Mary Margaret will have been enjoying this weekend. Oh, that reminds me, Mary Margaret texted me while you were out picking up dinner." Turning, she pushes aside the usual pile of junk mail on the counter top to come up with her phone. "She says they're having a great time, no major family drama as yet and she hopes that we've kissed and made up." She rolls her eyes at that, but he sees the hint of colour that touches her face. "They'll be home by six on Sunday night."

"Another two days with just each other for company?" He stands behind her on the pretext of finding a serving spoon in the second drawer down, wrapping his arms around her. "Whatever shall we do to pass the time?"

"I'm sure we'll think of something." He feels the chuckle that ripples through her, then the soft sigh as he abandons his search for a utensil and instead cups her breasts in his hands, swallowing hard when he feels her nipples tighten at his touch.

He closes his eyes. After so many years of wanting her, _craving_ her, this is almost too much. "_Emma._"

"I know." She covers his hands with hers, moving them gently over her breasts until her nipples are hard against his palms and he's stiff with the need of her, his cock pressing into the curve of her arse. Her head falls back onto his shoulder as she presses back against him harder, teasing him with a slow, deliberate rhythm. "I mean, this is crazy, right?"

"I don't care." He finds her mouth with his, pinching her nipples gently between his finger and thumb, and she gasps into the kiss, her tongue slipping between his lips to tangle with his, her answer muttered in between unsteady breaths.

"Neither do I."

They make it to his room this time, pulling off just enough clothing for him to slide inside her. The thin satin of her bra is cool against his chest, her toes pushing the waistband of his jeans down to his knees. It's slower this time, his mouth fused to hers as they move together, every thrust sending a shockwave of sensation hammering through his body, sparking at the base of his spine, his cock full and aching as he presses himself deep inside her again and again. She bites at his bottom lip, muttering _yes _and _harder _in a mantra that has his blood boiling and his hand slipping between their straining bodies to find the slippery heat of her, his thumb pressing and circling until she begins to shudder beneath him, her hips lifting in mute supplication.

"God, I love you." He mouths the words against her throat as she comes, tasting the violent hammering of her pulse, feeling the quiet sob catch in her throat.

"I love you too."

(No matter how many years he will spend alive on this earth, he knows he will never tire of hearing those words from her lips.)

Closing his eyes, he begins to move again, faster and deeper, each stroke setting his skin and flesh alight with desire until the storm takes him, his release pulsing through him in a hot wave of pleasure that steals his voice and his breath, his hips jerking clumsily.

After a long moment, she starts to laugh, a soft snuffling sound, her face buried against his shoulder. "How many times is that now?"

Rolling onto his side, he strokes his fingertips over the swell of her breasts as he considers the question, enjoying the contrast between warm skin and cool satin. "I've lost count, I'm afraid."

She grins at him, looking thoroughly ravished in a fashion in which he heartily approves. "Maybe we can do a tally over dinner."

They do.

After dinner, she graciously allows him a portion of her apology ice-cream, as she insists on calling it, then kisses him with peanut butter flavoured lips. "My bed tonight?"

Despite their amorous activities over the last day and a half, they've yet to actually spend the night in her bed, and her faintly shy offer makes his chest tighten. "It would be an honour, love."

* * *

><p>She wakes to the sound of an incoming text, but she doesn't bother checking her phone straight away. The most important person in her life is currently stretched out beside her, snoring softly, after all. Closing her eyes, she tries to go back to sleep, but it's no use. Too many years of working in her chosen field has made it impossible to ignore an incoming message, it seems. Sitting up, she reaches for the phone on her bedside table, and the bottom instantly falls out of her stomach.<p>

_You might have already deleted me from your address book, but I'm hoping you still recognise my number.__I'm so sorry about Thursday night.__I didn't mean to shock or embarrass you in public, I just really wanted to surprise you with something I truly believed we both wanted.__My fault completely.__I guess I've been so busy with work that I missed some really important things, like the fact that you weren't happy.__I'm more sorry than I can say, and I'd like very much if we could remain friends.__I'd also like very much to see you, if only to give you the things you left at my place and to apologise in person.__If you're free for brunch on Sunday morning, it would mean an awful lot to me to be able to say goodbye properly.__Walsh xo_

A swell of anger – the kind she hasn't felt in _years _– rises up inside her. She has no idea how long she spends glaring at that fucking _xo_ before Killian wakes, and she starts at the feel of his hand on her shoulder. "Something wrong?"

Rage and a whole heap of other emotions seem to have stolen her voice, so she simply shoves the phone into his hands. She watches his face as he reads, perversely pleased by the anger that tightens his features. He glances up at her, his eyes glittering with the same quiet fury that's clawing at her insides. "That's quite the interesting development."

She has to clear her throat before she can speak. "That's one way of putting it."

He makes a face of pure distaste at the phone, and she has the feeling he wants to pitch it against the closest wall. "It's clear he's still under the impression that you believe him to be nothing more than a mild-mannered business man whose heart you've broken."

"Yep."

She hears herself bite out the word like a curse, and he puts a reassuring hand on her arm as she takes the phone from him and thumbs through to the phone app. "You don't have to contact him, love."

"I know." She gives him what she hopes is a confident glance, but she suspects it falls way short. "I'm calling Kathryn."

It's just after eight on a Saturday morning, but she has no doubt Kathryn will be awake. She's right. Her boss answers on the third ring, and Emma hears what sounds like cartoons playing in the background. "Emma?"

"Is this a bad time for you?"

"No, it's fine, let me just find a closed door I can hide behind." There's a faint rustle of movement, then the cartoon background noise is gone. "Strangely enough, I was just about to call you. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." Emma glances at the man beside her, his eyes filled with concern. "Can I put you on speaker?"

"Sure."

"Walsh sent me a text this morning." She rattles off the message, feeling faintly sick at the sheer audacity of his over-the-top apology, knowing the man he really is. "He wants to meet for brunch tomorrow," she adds in a rush, only slightly comforted by the feel of Killian's hand stroking up and down her back. "Why the hell would he bother doing that?"

Kathryn's sigh is clearly heard through the small phone speaker. "Because he wants you to be his alibi."

Emma stares at the phone. _Just when she thought she couldn't be angrier,_ she thinks darkly. "What?"

"I'm sorry to be the bearer of more bad news, Emma, but it seems that this has been his habit for some time now. I've spent yesterday going over all the information I have with a veritable fine toothed comb, and after talking to my contact at the Boston PD, it appears that the dates of the Boston break-ins are almost a perfect match with surveillance photos of his public outings with you."

Beside her, she can literally feel the tension radiating from Killian, and she wonders how much willpower it's costing him to stay silent during this supposedly private call between her and her employer. One look at his stony expression tells her that it's a _lot. _

"So what do I do now? Ignore him? Politely refuse? Go to brunch and see if he incriminates himself over eggs benedict?" Killian's hand twitches on her back at the last question, and she's careful not to look at him while they wait for Kathryn's answer.

"Let me speak to my contact. I'll call you back as soon as I can."

"Thanks."

She's barely disconnected the call before he says her name in exactly the tone she was expecting him to use. "_Swan_."

"Don't look at me like that." Tossing back the bed clothes, she gets to her feet and picks up her robe from the end of the bed.

He climbs out of bed with equal speed, pulling on the sweatpants and t-shirt she'd peeled off him sometime after midnight last night. "Like what?"

"Like you're afraid I'm going to do something stupid." She tosses the words over her shoulder as she heads for the bathroom, but he's hot on her heels.

"_Are _you planning on doing something stupid?"

She turns to face him, pulling the tie of her robe tighter, wondering if he'd noticed she'd slipped her phone into one of the deep pockets. "If you were in my position, what would you do?"

He scrubs his hands through his hair, making it stand on end, and her own hands itch with the urge to smooth it down. "Well, for starters, darling, I don't think I could ever fancy Walsh, so-"

She grabs onto the irritation that flashes through her, because it's easier than feeling guilty over the worry in his bright eyes. "Don't turn this into a joke, okay?"

"When it comes to your emotional and physical wellbeing, Swan, I'm deadly serious, I assure you."

Leaning forward, she touches her mouth to his, her hand flat over his heart. His heart is racing beneath her palm, and she knows it's not because of the kiss. "Let's just wait and see what Kathryn has to say."

He gives her a long look, his eyes searching hers, but all he says is, "I'll make us some coffee." He lets her go then, and she closes the bathroom door behind her. Letting out a shaky sigh, she leans back against it, her palms pressed flat against the cool grain of the wood.

_He wants you to be his alibi._

She closes her eyes. Only one other person who's still in her life knows what a red hot trigger word _alibi_ is for her, but she's currently in another state visiting family. Mary Margaret is the one who picked her up off the ground and helped put her back together after the end of her relationship with Neal had left her in pieces. She's always respected Emma's preference to not look backwards or discuss Neal (or his bastard of a father), but right now Emma has never wanted her friend to walk through the front door more in her life.

She feels her jaw clench, and wonders vaguely if her teeth are grinding. She should have seen the signs. She should have _known_ that Walsh had been too good to be true.

Switching her phone to silent, she finally starts to go through her usual Saturday morning bathroom routine, and it's not until after she's brushing her teeth that she feels the phone begin to vibrate in her pocket. Putting down the toilet lid, she perches on the seat, her phone pressed hard to her ear.

"Well?"

"Firstly," Kathryn says quietly, "I know this is a lot to ask of you, and it's perfectly fine if you don't feel comfortable-"

"Kathryn, please just tell me what you need."

Emma listens intently as her boss spells out the suggested game plan, so to speak, and the churning in her stomach is slowly replaced by the familiar sensation adrenalin spiking her blood. She knows Killian will be horrified, but this isn't about him. This is something she needs to do. Somehow, she'll have find a way to make him understand that.

"Okay." Closing her eyes, she takes a deep breath and throws one last toss of the dice. "I'm in."


End file.
